The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades
by BittahWizard
Summary: "Lost and Out of Time (The Little Black Submarines Saga" Part 1 / An AU where everything he loves gets buried in the dirt, so Stiles rips apart the space-time continuum.
1. Stiles Dies at the End

"Shit, shit, shit, shit—Shiiiit!"

Lanky limbs scramble across dead leaves and dirt, trying to find steady ground, only to trip again over a rotting log.

Ragged breaths fill the air.

Fuck, those are _his._

Something wet is dripping from his hands, warm and sluggish. Blood.

Fuck, that's _not his._

If he wasn't laying on the cold ground—face bruised, head concussed, and ankle splayed a little too far to the left—he'd find the whole situation hilarious. Objectively, he guesses it still is. Hysteria bubbles up his throat, fighting with his uneven breathing until all that comes out is a choked cough.

It's funny. It is. It's abso-fucking-lutely hilarious because this is the seventh time in a calendar year that Stiles has been on the run from a bloodthirsty monster and the thing that still trips him up—quite literally—is that he still hasn't gotten any better at running through the woods. Granted, it's pitch black outside, but Stiles can't help but find it ironic that even after the great unveiling of the supernatural, the thing that causes the most damage is still his ability to trip over every surface he comes into contact with. Well, it almost is.

There's also the reason he's running through the woods in the first place. Gerard Argent.

Yeah, fuck that guy.

Scrunching his legs underneath him, Stiles drags himself upright until he's completely vertical and sprints off in the direction of his jeep.

He slams into the driver's side door—shit, both he and Roscoe's paint job have seen better days—climbs into the cab, and prays to the werewolf gods—do they have gods? God? he should really ask Derek, oh wait he's fucking _dead_ —that his jeep starts up. The reluctant purr of the engine has Stiles whoop with, well, not joy, but something close enough that a ghost of a smile crosses his face. He takes a lingering look out his rearview mirror, trying to see if anyone else will magically make it out of the preserve. Nothing but darkness stares back.

They're dead.

 _He's_ dead.

Another one of those choked sobs escapes his throat.

 _Gotta find dad._

He gives the preserve one last look.

Then he gets the fuck out of there.

* * *

Stiles has always been the clever one; smart in a way that others like Scott can't even try to be. He's even smart in a way that Lydia can't quite match. Sure, she's got the rest of Beacon Hills thinking that to match her wits, her hair color should be platinum blonde, but Stiles knows the truth. She's intelligent, she's calculative, and she's driven. His ten-year plan may be needing to be extended another decade, but it wasn't built solely on her looks.

Well, it kind of was.

But even with all of her brains, she still lacks Stiles' ability to find the most unlikely of connections, his dogged determination, his ability to research obscure supernatural texts with only the internet, coffee, and an abuse of his Adderall to help guide him.

What that means is that Stiles knows a lot. And, that knowledge, combined with his dubious morality and incessant need to protect the people that he loves, forces him to take a step back and observe. It forces him to prepare for every eventuality, to see farther ahead than all the monsters nipping at their heels, to find a way to stop them.

Stiles Stilinski is clever in a way that other people aren't because he learns things and then goes out and does something with it. He's the determined one, he's the strategist, he's the one that does what needs to be done. He's got plans from A-Z.

He's the clever one.

So, it throws Stiles' whole world off-kilter when after all that they'd been through. The whole kanima whodunit, psycho Matt gunning down deputies who helped raise Stiles, geriatric Gerard beating the hell out of him—as if texting isn't an easier way to send a message?—and Allison turning into Kate Lite, having to watch as Lydia turns Jackson from a murderous lizardy douchebag into a werewolfy douchebag with the power of her love—or the power of angst and house keys? it's still unclear, witnessing Peter Hale come back from the dead, the part where Scott "saves" the day with some mountain ash and a stolen bite from Derek, forcing Gerard to slither away into the night—after the whole shebang, Stiles thought it was over.

Sure, Boyd and Erica needed to be found and Gerard was most definitely going to be terrorizing them all again, and don't even get Stiles started on what he's filing Peter Hale under (that would be "M" for Machiavellian); but, after that shit show, Stiles thought they'd done it. He'd figured out what was happening, helped save some lives, and kept his dad and Scott safe(ish).

After all, he's the clever one.

So maybe it's this false sense of security that blinded him. It was the huge sense of relief that he felt after realizing he could now hug his dad without being paralyzed or shot at. Sure, his whole body was in pain and his left eye was swollen shut, but he could still walk away. Maybe it was being blindsided by Scott not trusting him with his plan—maybe that should have been a red flag that his plans weren't quite cutting it, that he didn't see every piece on the chessboard as clearly as he thought he did.

Maybe he wasn't as clever as he thought he was.

Because just a week after the showdown in the warehouse finds Stiles Stilinski running for his life in the woods, a sense of déjà vu creeping up his spine as he remembers this sort of fear all too well.

This sort of fear, the one that keeps his blood pumping hot and his sweat breaking cold, yeah, that's the sort of fear he associates with Gerard Argent.

Yeah, fuck that guy.

* * *

It goes like this: exactly a week after Gerard left dripping motor oil from his mouth, Stiles is spending yet another night researching pack bonds and werewolf communication, as Erica and Boyd have yet to be found. His face is black and purple, and his ribs ache with every page he flips.

He looks up every so often to make sure Derek is still looming in the doorway of the train depot. The aesthetic of this grimy deathtrap just isn't the same without Derek's particular brand of gloomy, alpha werewolf posturing.

The location also doesn't exactly help with Stiles' aches, as he's constantly trying to find a comfortable spot while sitting on the floor.

Of an abandoned train depot.

Another squirm brings about another pang in his chest, and Stiles can't manage to muffle the hitch in his breath that follows. Glancing back up, he sees Derek looking at him with something other than contempt.

How strange.

"You really should find another place to live, Sourwolf. This place is just a series of building code violations and Hepatitis." Stiles mutters as he turns another page.

Derek scowls. Ah, all is right in the world. "You can comment on my interior decorating as soon as you find something useful. Until then, shut up Stiles."

Stiles fake pouts, his split lip stinging with the strain, but buries his head back into the tome.

He isn't surprised when hours later Scott, Isaac, and Jackson show up, telling Derek that there's still no sign of the missing betas.

Scott walks over to where Stiles is sprawled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Stiles watches as Scott's veins turn black and pulse.

They still haven't talked about it. Scott's collaboration with and double-cross of Gerard or Stiles' time spent in the Argent basement being tortured. Stiles loves Scott, and Scott loves Stiles; but, he can't help but dislike him at this very moment.

 _He didn't notice. He didn't trust you. He doesn't trust you._

He's unsure of where they stand, something that scares Stiles more than he can put into words.

So, Stiles isn't talking about it.

He watches as Scott's veins fade to grey. Stiles' entire body unwinds, and he holds out his fist for Scott to bump. "Thanks, bro."

Scott bumps back, smile hesitant until it's not, like a ray of sunshine peeking out from behind a bog of clouds, "No problem. You find anything yet?"

At that question, all other voices in the room quiet.

Stiles feels all eyes on him. He also feels the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. Someone else has entered the depot, he can feel their eyes add to the weight of the rest of the room's gaze already on his back.

"Well, we know that Erica and Boyd told Derek they were leaving. They heard other wolves and decided to take the risk in someone else's pack. We also know that they weren't successful because, well," Stiles swallows, "because they were with me in the basement. That being said, I think we should assume that they're okay and still looking for a pack."

"What makes you say that?" Scott asks.

"From what I've gathered from this Alpha MacKenzie's personal account," Stiles gestures to the giant book splayed out in front of him, "the connection between an alpha and its beta is rather intuitive. Alphas gain power from every beta in their pack, and with that comes the ability to sense each beta's physical location and emotional state. MacKenzie even says that the stronger the alpha and its pack, the farther that connection can be maintained." Stiles turns towards Derek, "You can still feel them, can't you?"

Derek flinches. "How do you know that?"

"You've been pacing, frustrated and worried for a week now. The level of stress you're under only makes sense if something important is at stake. If you have something to lose, it means that you still have _something_. Therefore, you're still able to feel them. Therefore, Erica and Boyd are still in the pack." Stiles yawns, eyes blurred and back stiff. He wipes at his face, only to look up and see everyone looking at him curiously.

A low chuckle reverberates across the room. Stiles stiffens.

"Very astute, little spark. Knowing my nephew better than he knows himself? How quaint." Peter emerges from the shadows near the entrance.

He circles the room, coming to stand over Stiles. Peter crouches down and cocks his head. "Yes, you really are the cleverest witch of your age, aren't you?"

The gears turning in Stiles' mind halt. He splutters, "Did you just quote _Harry Potter_ at me?"

Peter grins, "Technically, you'll find that I quoted Remus Lupin at you."

Stiles huffs, uncomfortable that he's not all that uncomfortable with Zombie Wolf so close to his very frail, very human self. It's sad that all it takes is a joke and a smirk to get on Stiles' good side these days.

Stiles stands, turning away from Peter to address Derek, who's been watching their interaction warily. And, funnily enough, he's inched closer to Stiles.

How strange.

"They're probably still out in the preserve, too scared to face you and out of the loop about the Argents. We should wait until morning and sweep the woods." Stiles glances at Peter, who's continuing to stare at Stiles with an unreadable look on his face.

Derek's eyebrows pinch together, "We should go tonight. They've been alone out there for too long. We shouldn't waste any time that we have. Isaac, Jackson, come with me. Scott, go to Deaton and find out if there's any sort of tracking spell he can do."

Scott growls and begins to protest, but is too late as Derek marches past him, indifferent to his opinion. Derek pauses before the exit, turns back with red eyes blazing and mutters, "Thanks, Stiles. Now go home." And with that, he vanishes into the night. Isaac and Jackson dutifully follow behind him, Isaac with a backward glance at Scott and Jackson with a sneer at Stiles.

Stiles walks over to Scott and leans into his space. "Dude, you should go to Deaton. We need all of the information we can get. I know you don't like Derek, but dude's got a point." Stiles also likes the idea of Scott not wandering in the creature-infested woods at midnight, but wisely chooses not to voice that opinion. "Besides, Deaton actually talks to you. He's just unhelpfully cryptic when I try and talk to him."

Scott's shoulders slump. "Yeah, I...yeah, that makes sense. See you tomorrow? We can just play COD and chill." He looks jittery, a combination of hopeful and tired that hits Stiles directly in the chamber of his heart labeled "Scott's Territory."

"Yeah, sure Scotty. I'll see you tomorrow. Text me if you get anything good out of Deaton."

Scott smiles and leaps at Stiles, hugging him tightly. Stiles winds his arms around his brother's back and squeezes back. They both awkwardly extricate themselves from the hug, casually ignoring their feelings like men.

Scott passes by Peter, who has been silently watching their interaction out of the corner of his eye. Once he reaches the older wolf, Scott growls and says, "I haven't forgotten who you are or what you've done. Stay away from me and my mom. And stay away from Stiles." Then he stalks out of the room with one last nod in Stiles' direction.

Then it's just Stiles and Peter Hale, alone in an abandoned train depot. The reality is like some sort of ridiculous Mad Lib come to life.

"What's got you so nervous, Stiles?" Peter asks, prowling slowly back towards the boy in question.

"Maybe it's the resurrected mass murderer in the room. Or maybe it's the room itself, I touched that rail over there and I think I've already contracted tetanus. But, now that I think about it, it's probably the former."

It's definitely the former.

"Now Stiles, name-calling is so beneath you. Although you are spot-on with your assessment of Derek's living arrangements. Rats wouldn't squat here—they have too good of taste." Peter comes even closer, and Stiles' heart rate jumps. "But no, I don't think it's either of those choices. I think you're nervous about something else entirely."

Peter's quick, grabbing the handle of Stiles' backpack from the floor and ripping it open. He takes the thick folder out of the bag and shuffles through the collected pages of notes. "I've seen you working on this all week. Plans, hm? Looks like you've almost completed them. And look, they're alphabetized."

Stiles swallows, but finds himself willing to play along with Peter's game. Only he wants to flip it on its head by being uncharacteristically honest. It might actually shake Peter up.

"Actually, that's my revised edition. I already had 26 contingency plans, I just needed to update them a bit after, well, after what happened this year." Stiles scratched at a scab on his cheek. "You were filed twice under 'A' for 'Asshole Alpha' and under 'Z' for 'Peter Hale is killing everyone so obviously he needs more than one plan.'"

Peter laughs, seemingly surprised by Stiles' answer. "And now, dear spark? Now that you that there are worse monsters out there than me, what exactly is your Plan Z?" He seems genuinely interested—or at least as genuine as Peter's burnt out heart can be.

Stiles' own heart skips, making Peter look up sharply from the folder.

"You really don't want to know what Plan Z is." And Peter seems to hear the seriousness in Stiles' tone.

"You'll find that I really do."

"You don't."

"I do."

"Don't."

"Do."

"Magical redo button." Stiles whispers, ready for this conversation to be over.

Peter stalks right up to him, grips Stiles' chin in his clawed hand, and looks intently into his eyes. "What do you—," a buzz interrupts Peter's question.

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen. It's a text from Scott.

 _Deaton has info ab forest. Smthng ab triggers, currents, and a tree called a nemeton? Going out there now 2 meet up w Derek_

Then Stiles really starts to panic. He knows exactly what the nemeton is. After so many times being ignored by Deaton and stumbling around in the woods, he's seen some strange shit. So he researched. And he researched. And then he found what he was looking for and so much more. He found what he wanted to know, but it wasn't everything—he knows that now, no amount of information can ever be enough—and what he found was also terrible.

Or, rather, if he ever needed that information everything would already be pretty terrible.

Stiles couldn't ignore the growing feeling of dread in his stomach—a void slowly unfolding and expanding within his body.

From what he learned so far, that tree was bad news.

He looks up from his phone to find Peter gone.

Stiles sighs and types out a reply.

 _Wait for me. Omw._

* * *

Stiles drives to the preserve. He steps out of the jeep, grabs his trusty baseball bat, and begins to run without thought. He can feel something dark drawing him deeper into the forest.

Deaton once told him he was a spark, and Peter's definitely taken to the idea, but Stiles bets neither of them know the extent to which he's looked into what that means.

He bets they don't know about the pens that scattered across his desk without him touching them, the aftermath of a frustrating attempt to control the mountain ash Deaton had given him during the kanima debacle. He didn't even realize because he was too focused on that infuriating black powder.

He realized a few days later during one of his research benders. Stiles was keyed up, thanks to an Adderall-binge, when his curtains caught fire. It was tough to explain to the Sheriff. The "Hey, what can you do, teenagers play with matches" excuse didn't really go over well, but his dad didn't push it.

Ever since he set his room on fire, Stiles hoarded all knowledge about magic and how to wield it safely. He thought he was doing okay for a newbie.

Three months later he finds himself running towards something dark, something _alien_ , without much conscious thought, so maybe he isn't doing as well as he thought.

It's weird, though. Stiles has wandered out into the forest once or twice after research binges to see if he could get a read on the dormant nemeton. It always felt dark, but it never felt violent like it does now. He's dreading what that could possibly mean.

And he hates that he doesn't know.

This last week has been a lesson in humility.

Stiles reaches the clearing, the one marked by a large stump and not much else.

Well, except maybe death.

Stiles can't help but feel grim as he enters the clearing. Everything is too quiet, all he can hear is his own heartbeat. He lifts his bat over his shoulder and blindly walks toward the stump.

Fuck werewolves and their ability to see in the dark.

He trips over something big and goes down, hands thrown out in front to cushion his fall.

He lands on something long. It's soft, yet resistant. Bony.

Bile rises in Stiles' throat.

 _Nononononononono—_

He scrambles for his phone and turns on the flashlight.

The bloodied face of Isaac Lahey stares unblinkingly back at him.

He pushes himself away from the body— _the body_ —and shines the flashlight around him.

The light finds the brutalized body of Jackson not five feet away. Stiles walks closer, noticing that both Isaac and Jackson have been trapped in tree roots, their legs, arms, and throats choked by thick bark and barren vines.

"Stiles."

He jerks away from Isaac and Jackson, searching wildly for whoever gargled his name.

Two red pinpoints glow in the dark, and Stiles sprints over, falling to his knees next to a dying Derek.

"Stiles," he gasps. "It—was. Gerard. Tree...killed his men—sacrifice. Woke it. Used it to kill, us. Had, Boyd, Erica."

And Stiles—Stiles is crying. He reaches out and grabs the vines suffocating Derek. He pulls and he pulls but he isn't strong enough.

Stiles looks within himself, tapping into the warmth in his chest, his magic. He reaches out to the nemeton, trying to connect to its power. But it's too late, the nemeton, dark and powerful in its own right, has already been tied to something else. Someone else.

The nemeton is no longer just dark and dormant—it's alive and its power is being channeled by evil.

"Stiles."

He opens his eyes and meets Derek's. He stops yanking fruitlessly at the roots constricting Derek's body.

"It's okay, Derek. I'll find him, I'll stop this. Just hold on."

"Not. Soon. Enough," Derek wheezes. "Stiles. Gerard—trying, find you. Revenge, on us—all. Stiles, be safe."

"Fuck, fuck! Derek don't you fucking die on me. You don't deserve this, you stupid Sourwolf."

And Derek—Derek smiles. Then he says, "Stiles, don't look. Don't." The red flicks to his left. "Don't."

"Don't look? What are you—?"

And then it hits him.

"Derek, Derek where's Scott?"

Derek's no longer smiling, Derek's no longer doing anything. The red in his eyes is no longer shining and Stiles can't breathe.

He cups Derek's cheek. "Derek?"

And then he's alone. He's alone and he knows what Derek meant. Stiles knows that if he looks to his left he's going to see something that will shatter his whole world. He knows that if he looks he's not going to be able to leave the clearing. If he looks, nothing will be okay. He can't afford to panic.

So he doesn't look.

Gerard is trying to find him.

 _Dad._

Then he sprints towards his jeep, leaving seven bodies behind him without a backward glance.

* * *

So it went like this: Gerard, psychotic megalomaniac that he is, decided that the best way to exact his revenge on a group of teenagers and heal himself was by using the power of the nemeton.

He kills his own goons to kickstart the connection to the tree.

Then he uses that connection to kill the pack, to kill his best—no.

 _Don't look._

Stiles can't help but roll around this information in his head as he speeds toward his house.

Think, Stilinski, think.

That's what he does best.

So he thinks. And he enacts Plan G.

He skids to a stop outside his house, noting that dad's cruiser is in the driveway. He hustles over to the trunk and digs out the keyring from his pocket. He pops it open—thank you past self for taking one for the team and illegally cutting keys—and he grabs the shotgun from the back. He loads five shells into the gun and pumps it once.

Silently, he creeps around to the back door. He knows dad leaves it open when he's home to save money on the AC.

He enters the house, barrel raised and eyes alert.

Stiles hears a voice. That fucking voice.

It's talking about monsters, about human sympathizers. It's talking about how it's sorry, but they brought this on themselves.

 _It's talking to his dad._

"Hello, Stiles," that voice croaks.

Gerard is sitting next to his dad at the kitchen table, the Sheriff's service Glock is in Gerard's right hand and pointed directly at his dad's heart.

 _Red meats and Cheetos were the only things meant to threaten his dad's heart._

"I was just telling your father about all of the trouble you've gotten yourself into."

His dad grimaces and Stiles notices the gash on his temple, the steady trickle of blood running down his face.

"We've been waiting for you to get home. Where were you?" Gerard grins maniacally. "Did you find them?"

Fury, hot and pure, races through Stiles' body. He's shaking with rage, his grip on the shotgun white-knuckled and twitchy.

"Stiles be careful," his dad intones.

Gerard jumps up, grabbing his father in a chokehold and forcing the muzzle of the gun into the Sheriff's chest.

"Gerard, don't do it," Stiles warns. "Don't." But there's no arguing with madness. Gerard may have been power-hungry before, but the cold logic is now absent from his eyes.

He's drunk from the nemeton's power, Stiles realizes.

It leaves him feeling cold.

He meets his dad's eyes. They're warm, so warm.

"Stiles, son, I love you."

"Dad."

Gerard sneers, "How sweet."

And then the Sheriff explodes upward, elbowing Gerard in the gut and trying to wrestle the gun away.

A shot goes off.

His dad goes down.

A second shot goes off.

Gerard collapses next to the Sheriff.

Stiles leaps forward, kicking the gun away from Gerard and kicking the man in the face for good measure.

He kneels next to his dad—the position so hauntingly familiar—and he presses his hands to his father's chest, attempting to stop the flow of blood. His father looks at him, blood starting to gurgle in the back of his throat.

"Stiles I—," and then he's gone.

Stiles breaks. He screams, performing chest compressions because that's what you do right? Right? Chest compressions heal fatal bullet wounds. It makes sense—it does.

Stiles howls. He trembles with rage.

He goes numb.

Stiles sits back, closing his dad's eyes. He stands, picking up the shotgun. Gerard's still breathing, chest movements shallow. His shot missed his heart, but he's knocked out cold.

Stiles looks down at the man that ruined his life.

"I didn't anticipate you. Next time, I won't make that mistake."

And then he unloads the last four rounds into Gerard Argent's face.

* * *

Peter Hale finds him sitting on the nemeton an hour later, cradling Scott's face in his lap.

He had wrestled Scott's body from the tree's roots, finding the task much easier now that the nemeton's master was dead.

A book, thick and weathered, lies next to Stiles. He looks up, watching the werewolf approaching.

"What are you doing, Stiles?" Peter stops in front of the tree, eyes curious and flashing.

"Plan Z." Stiles flips to the right page and begins gathering the magic within him. It builds and builds, burning hotter than it ever has before, and he begins to channel that energy into the nemeton.

Stiles looks up at Peter sharply, eyes burning bright. "Huh, your eyes aren't red. Strange."

Peter flinches, the movement minute, but noticeable. "I know." He looks over Scott's mangled body and the book. "What exactly is Plan Z? We were interrupted before you said."

Stiles laughs. He laughs because it's funny. He's in the woods with Peter Hale, a man so corrupted he's only curious when faced with the mutilated bodies of relatives and teenagers. He laughs because he can see himself becoming exactly like this Peter if he didn't have Plan Z as an escape.

Stiles laughs in Peter's face, an edge of mania carrying his voice across the clearing.

"Time travel, Peter. I'm going to fix everything."

And at that, Peter's eyes shine bright. He cocks his head to the side and chuckles, matching Stiles' pitch with his own.

"I always liked you most, Stiles Stilinski. How far back are you going?" he asks with unrestrained glee.

"I'm going to save your family, Peter."

Hale stops laughing at that.

"But, not for you, you psycho. I'm doing this for me, for my family and friends. I'm doing this for Derek. For Erica, Boyd, Isaac, hell, even Jackson. I'm doing this because fuck the Argents. I'm doing this for the man you should have been." Stiles stops, breathing heavily.

Nothing but the sound of Stiles' breaths and the rustle of leaves can be heard.

Peter gives him one last look, "Well, alright then." And then he turns and walks away.

Stiles' magic continues to build. His nose begins to bleed. He begins to chant, Latin a bit broken but good enough to get the job done.

Or, at least he hopes it is.

He feels the ground start to tremble, the scent of ozone fills the air.

Stiles finishes the spell, a crescendo of voices roaring in his ears. He shuffles to the side and removes the knife from his back pocket. The steel glints under the moonlight.

He pats his friend's shaggy hair, "It's going to be okay."

Below him, the nemeton begins to crack.

"One last sacrifice, aye Scotty?"

And then Stiles slits his own throat.

He hears the howl of a lone wolf.

Then the world goes dark.


	2. Stiles & The Bird of Pure Evil

It's the ache in his ribs that wakes him up.

Or, maybe it's the bird pecking at his collarbone.

Scratch that, it's probably both.

Stiles gasps, sucking in a breath so abruptly that he ends up choking on his own spit. He opens his eyes, coming face-to-beak with a giant black raven. The bird's feathers rustle as it twitches atop his chest. It caws once, a loud contrast to the forest's stillness, and proceeds to fix its—judgy? it looks very judgy—stare on Stiles. He flails his arms wildly, trying to scare the raven off of his prone body.

Now, Stiles isn't an ornithologist—thank you third-grade presentation on the yellow-rumped warbler—but in his opinion, this bird doesn't look very impressed. It sits there for a few beats more, and then pecks him in the nose as if to assert its dominance.

Stiles yells—disoriented and nauseous—and flinches away from the bird, rolling onto his side in the process. The movement finally dislodges his unwelcome guest, but it also causes his head to crack against the nemeton. Bright white spots filter over his vision. Well, that definitely didn't help with the nausea. Yeah, definitely—

And Stiles—yeah, Stiles is puking his guts out next to an ancient, mystical tree.

Coughing roughly, holy fuck that tastes awful, Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He flops back over, sprawling out on top of the stump. Then he does a full body scan with his hands: legs, stomach, ribs—ouch!, yep still broken—shoulders, arms, neck—score!, not gashed open—head, face—shit!, still bruised to all hell—and finally, dick.

Thank god that's still intact.

His mind blanks for a second, just taking in the fact that somehow, he's still alive. The only question now is, is anybody else?

A rather obnoxious, "Caw, caw!" breaks through his maudlin thoughts.

That fucking bird.

Stiles sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the nemeton. He reaches up and touches his throat again. There isn't even a scar. A thought hits him, and he moans in agony. Fuck, it hurts almost as much as his face to know that his life is now comparable to _Romeo and Juliet_.

Stiles _loathed_ those melodramatic assholes, and now he's one of them.

 _Fuck me gently with a chainsaw._

Another thought hits him. He scrambles up and off the tree, taking a few steps back to really get a look at the thing. He kicks it hard.

Twice.

"You could heal my goddamn death-wound—make my throat all nice like there was never any arterial spray—but you couldn't heal my fucking _broken ribs_? Or my _face_? Are you freaking kidding me right now? What was the matter? Reversing death was easy, but a few bruises are where you draw the line?!"

Yeah, Stiles—Stiles is yelling at an ancient, mystical tree.

He kicks it again, only to flinch backward as the bird from _literal_ hell flies right over his head, feathers and talons catching in his hair. It lands in the center of the nemeton, "CAW, CAW!"

He flips the raven his middle finger in response. Heh. Giving a bird, _the bird_.

Then he spins around and begins to walk away, only to trip and fall on his face. Stiles splutters and cranes his head, looking back at the ground he tripped over. He sees a root, one slightly lighter in color than the death ropes that killed his friends, wiggle at him as if waving hello, and then slither back underground.

He picks himself up off the ground, "Holy shit, you're really awake. Like, _really_ awake!" He doesn't quite know what else to say, because it's one thing to read about something, and quite another to be confronted with an actual ancient, mystical, and _sentient_ tree.

One that is, apparently, a snarky asshole.

Well, that's something he can definitely get behind.

The bird is still looking at him like he's an idiot, like he's missing something completely obvious.

"Caw, CAW!"

He flaps his arms, mimicking—or rather, mocking—the bird. He caws back at it, "Caw, caw, motherfucker! What do you want from me?!" He stops his flapping, deciding that, yes, making fun of the bird is fun, but that, no, broken ribs are not. Then it hits him. He remembers the book, _Earth Magic: How Humans and Nature Connect_. He remembers the chapter on, what were they called? Stiles snaps his fingers. Familiars!

"Are you my familiar?" Stiles asks excitedly.

The bird's stare doesn't change.

"I'll take that as a 'no,' then."

Stiles looks inside himself, poking at the magic in his diaphragm. He senses his own power, a warm comfort in light of everything that's happened. But, he also feels another presence, something stronger. It's dark and active, but not bad. It feels nothing like the malice that he felt before.

It's the tree.

He digs deeper, tracing the threads of power running alongside his own. Huh, it's running parallel but doesn't intersect. He opens his eyes and looks down at the tree. He moves closer, crouching down to run his hand along the rough bark. Yeah, it looks brighter than it did before.

"So we're connected, huh? Like you were with Gerard?" Stiles ruminates.

The raven hops closer and bobs its head once.

That little movement shocks Stiles and his mind fritzes. "You can understand me!"

The bird nods again.

Stiles' mouth opens and closes like a fish, shocked and intrigued by the implications of what he's witnessing.

"So I _was_ talking to the tree," he starts cautiously.

The raven's sharp beak tips once again.

Stiles' synapses start firing. "But…you answered in response."

Yet another nod.

Stiles remembers another chapter in that book.

Holy shit.

"Oh my god, are you the spirit of the nemeton?! Some sort of manifestation of the power within?"

"Caw."

Stiles gapes.

There's silence.

"That's so fucking neat."

And that's how Stiles was formally introduced to an ancient, mystical tree.

* * *

He's already said it once, but Stiles feels the need to say it again.

Or, at least, the need to mutter it, angrily and under his breath: "Fucking walking through the woods bullshit."

The raven—tree spirit?, who Stiles has taken to calling Otis because when he first said it the little fucker squawked in outrage—seems to mock Stiles by flying calmly over his head, as if to say, hey, I know _you_ have trouble traipsing and tripping through the woods, but I'm doing alright.

The little shit.

Stiles huffs. At least it isn't midnight; in fact, if he had to guess, Stiles would say it's probably midday.

Reversing time, inverting the time of day—it's fascinating how magic works. Fascinating, but also alarming. Stiles didn't know if the spell would actually work—whoops—but now that it seems to have happened, Stiles can't help but worry about the consequences.

Look, he's seen _Dr. Who_ , _The Terminator, The Butterfly Effect_ , and hey, sue him, he's also seen _13 Going on 30_ —so he knows that time travel is one of those "hey, asshole, don't do that" moves. But hey, he _is_ an asshole. So, the voice in his head shouting things like "paradox" and "alternate timeline" and "unknown consequences"—which sounds suspiciously like Dr. Deaton, subconscious do with that what you will—is pushed aside pretty easily when Stiles considers the alternative.

Y'know, the alternative where Stiles has to live in a world where everyone he loved was just brutally murdered.

Yeah, that one.

So it's probably safe to say that Stiles is okay living with the consequences, after all, everyone else will be _living_ with them, too. It doesn't really matter to Stiles if it messes with the space-time continuum or if the leaves he's walking on right now somehow accidentally orphan a child a world away—at least his family is fine. Or will be, by the time he's through.

What can he say, he's an asshole.

But he can live with that.

So here Stiles is, walking through the woods with Otis flying at his left and the sun peeking through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. It's not a bad place to be.

But he must continue on, marching and stomping his way to the next part of Plan Z—Plan Z pt. 2? or should he just jump to A again? oh well, he'll figure out the minutiae later—which involves him figuring out just _when_ the hell he is.

If he spoke the Latin correctly—which, apparently was pretty spot on if he does say so himself—then he should have ended up in Beacon Hills before the Hale fire, so sometime around early 2005.

Stiles finally makes it to the edge of the preserve. He looks around the area, noting that everything looks pretty normal. The breeze at his back even _feels_ pretty normal.

Overhead, Otis is doing loop-de-loops.

He holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. As he blinks away spots, Stiles maps out his first destination.

Otis swoops down, landing on top of Stiles' left shoulder. The talons dig into his red hoodie, but he can't find it in him to care.

He bets he looks pretty awesome with a raven on his shoulder. Scotty the animal lover would be super jealous.

Stiles turns his face to Otis, "Where do you go for free information?"

Otis cocks—his? her? its?—head.

Stiles smiles, "I'll give you a hint: it's the tallest building in any city."

Otis blinks.

Stiles' smile turns evil, "The library," he pauses.

Otis turns sharply, a warning. "Caw."

 _Don't do it. Don't you dare._

He says it anyway, "Get it? Because it has the most _stories_."

Otis pecks him in the nose.

* * *

It takes Stiles hours, _hours_ , to make it into town.

He walks over to the back of the Gas'N'Go at the edge of town. Stiles rustles through his pockets, taking stock of what he's got.

A wallet: three pictures—one of him and his dad, one of him and Scott, and one of his mom; cards—license, school ID, debit, and library (hint: all pretty useless); $86.38 in cash and change (not as useless); and, two diner mints. Mmm, lunch.

His phone. Yeah, he could probably charge it (with magic, because technology in the past is always shittier and iffy), but what good is his smartphone without wifi? Stiles sighs. Wifi.

A USB flash drive, filled with his notes, his plans, and a copy of the Argent bestiary. What, like he spent all that time looking up the kanima and _wasn't_ going to make a copy? Get real.

And his trusty pocket knife. Stiles takes another look at the blade. Yep, that's his dried blood all over it. Might want to invest in another knife; walking around with your own ceremonial death dagger probably isn't the best idea.

It really, really isn't.

Stiles, now both heebied and jeebied, shudders, rolling out his shoulders to get rid of all the _ick_ that just settled over him.

He starts putting everything back in his pockets, only to look down and realize he really needs to change his first destination from the library to a Gap or a Sears.

Well, geez.

He looks at Otis, who has been patiently waiting on the ground and says, "Wait here."

Then he zips up his hoodie, thank god that's in working condition, and hurries into the Gas'N'Go. He yanks an "I Heart CA" t-shirt off of a rack near the door—seriously? do tourists even come to Beacon Hills?—and hustles over to the bathroom before the clerk can say anything about it.

Stiles slams the door, locks it, takes off the hoodie, and faces the mirror.

 _Yeah, that was a good call on the shirt._

After all, nothing says inconspicuous like walking around town in the middle of the day with a blood-spattered t-shirt.

He quickly shimmies out of his shirt and tosses it into the trash. Stiles takes fistfuls of paper towels, sorry environment, and begins wetting them. He soaps and he wipes until his entire body no longer looks like an extra for a Quentin Tarantino film. A few more fistfuls, again, sorry trees, have him dry and ready to go. He yanks on the horrible shirt (no, not the bloody one, but equally as horrible) and exits the restroom. He slaps $10 onto the counter in front of the clerk, who has yet to look even remotely interested, and waits for his change. He leaves the cashier with a jaunty salute and a, "Have a good day!"

Then he gets the fuck out of there.

* * *

Stiles is walking across Main St. when he realizes that if he wants to remain inconspicuous—thank you, bloodless shirt—then he should probably do something about the five-pound raven perched on his shoulder. Now that he thinks about it, it's really weird. So weird, that people should've already started pointing and whispering. Downtown Beacon Hills is actually pretty busy during the day, and he's passed about two dozen people already, so the fact that no one has looked twice in his direction is making his spidey sense tingle. He ducks into the alley beside Tony's Diner.

He lifts his arm for the bird to hop on. When it does, he levels Otis with his best "no-nonsense" glare. "Okay, dude, what's the deal."

"Caw, caw."

"Okay, I know you're trying to tell me something, but the whole cawing isn't really getting us anywhere."

"Caw, caw."

"Oh, wow, how mature! What are you, five? No! No, you're not five! You're, like, a zillion-year old tree, now act like it and give me some answers!" Stiles, much to his chagrin, is getting worked up over a bird.

"Caw, CAW."

"That's how you want to play it? Okay, I'll show you—,"

A voice to his left interrupts his diatribe, "Hey, kid!"

The owner of the voice, a mustachioed man with a black apron tied around his waist, rounds the corner of Tony's with two bags of garbage in his hand. "Kid," the guy continues, "who're you talking to?"

Stiles looks pointedly down at his arm, gesturing with his right hand, as if to say, "This giant blackbird, you dumbass." When the guy keeps staring, waiting for an answer, Stiles huffs.

"My pet bird. It's been acting a bit jumpy. I think it might be sick." Hopefully, that explanation will downgrade Stiles from a "yelling in an alley" weirdo to a "talks to pets forcefully" weirdo.

The guy throws the bags of garbage into the dumpster and gives Stiles a strange look.

"What bird?"

Stiles looks at the guy. Then he looks down at Otis.

The light bulb in Stiles' head goes off.

Of fucking course.

"Shit! He flew away! I just had him in my hands! I better go look for him," and then Stiles scoots past the guy and out of the alley. He walks quickly and puts at least four blocks between him and that poor and definitely confused garbage man. He crosses the street at a slow jog and winds down to a stroll when he can't see the diner anymore.

Phew.

That was embarrassing.

Also, rather difficult.

Apparently, it's pretty hard to run with a giant bird attached to your arm.

Make that a giant, _invisible_ bird. Because of course the magical tree spirit is invisible to everyone except the person it's connected to.

Just file that under "W" for "What the hell, it's a magic tree it does what it wants."

Stiles rounds the sidewalk, spotting the town's library.

 _Finally._

He gives Otis the stink eye.

"You could've been a little more helpful back there. Answers to important questions are y'know, _important._ "

Otis stares back, ever unimpressed.

"Caw, caw."

* * *

Stiles whistles all of the way to the front doors of the library, and as soon as he walks through the doors, he stops.

It only takes one serious talking to from the head librarian, Ms. Nesbit, for anybody to realize that the library is a _serious institution_ , the likes of which don't tolerate _any tomfoolery or shenanigans._

Stiles was eight. There may have been an incident with some books, the shelves, and his tiny, sneakered feet that landed him that particular lecture. He only had it the once, but it stuck.

It also helped that every time he entered the library after that eventful afternoon, Ms. Nesbit made it a habit of staring him down from over the checkout desk.

He shudders at the memory.

Then he steps into the library, immediately hit with a pang of nostalgia so great that even Otis notices from his perch on Stiles' shoulder.

The bird nuzzles softly against his cheek for just a quick moment.

It's enough, though, to get Stiles' feet in gear. He thanks the bird with a stroke over Otis' feathers.

Luckily for Stiles, he knows the ins and outs of the public library. He also knows the passwords to gain access to the computers they have in the back for members and employees. He knows his own code won't work, but that's okay. He knows _all_ the codes. He just hopes that Ms. Nesbit is lazy enough to use the same password over and over.

He walks into the small room and notices one person already set up at a cubicle. It looks like he's surfing hentai—Jesus Christ, what is that?—and Stiles can't help but appreciate someone else skirting the rules. Even if it is for you know, _that._

Holy shit, these computers look ancient. Objectively, Stiles can tell by the looks of the towers that he can't have traveled back more than a decade, but he also can't help but whimper at the memory of his gaming laptop and wifi.

Stiles sighs. Wifi.

He sits down in one of the swivel chairs and starts up the computer. He clicks on the "employee user" icon and types in the password he's known since he was eleven.

 _Hemingway1961_

And then he's in.

Thank god for lazy librarians. But never for Hemingway, never him.

Stiles immediately looks at the date stamp and time.

 _3/23/2004 2:27 pm_

Holy shit.

Stiles is in the past.

Like _actually in the fucking past_.

He throws himself out of the chair, startling hentai guy, and runs to the bathroom. He locks himself in the stall and quietly has a panic attack.

He hasn't had—will have? measurements of time no longer make any sense—one of those in two years.

When he's done, Stiles gets up and splashes water on his face.

 _Get yourself together, Stilinski._

He goes back into the computer room, hentai guy giving him a weird look.

Like Stiles is the weird one.

At least Stiles doesn't look up his weird porn in public.

He sits back down in his cubicle, pulls out the USB from his pocket, and plugs it into the tower. Stiles cracks his knuckles, knowing that he has a few things to take care of.

A few _illegal_ things.

It disturbs him that the "illegal" bit no longer disturbs him. He guesses everything seems pretty moral after rebooting the _whole fucking universe_.

 _Get yourself together, Stilinski._

And then Stiles gets to work.

* * *

By the time Stiles is done on the internet, sending out feelers and e-mails, catching up on current events both in town and out in the world, it's 7:30 and he's fucking starving. A guy can only chug along on diner mints and the library's water fountain for so long.

Sadly, the only place within his price range is the diner. Which means he might run into a garbage guy.

His stomach growls.

Tony's it is.

He walks out of the library with Otis flying above him and sees the sun starting to set. Stiles takes a moment and just breathes in the night air and basks in the dying light. His deep breaths come out a bit choppy, but all in all, he feels better.

Stiles strolls back over to the diner, forgoing the alley for the front door. A familiar bell chimes as he enters and his mouth starts to salivate at the smell of curly fries and apple pie.

He launches himself into one of the sticky booths—hint: no good diner's booths _aren't_ sticky—and waits for someone to serve him.

Holy crap, that's Kathy.

Stiles watches as an older waitress finishes topping off another customer's coffee and makes her way over to his booth in the back.

"What can I get for you, sugar?" Kathy says, so achingly cheerful.

Stiles recites from memory: "The biggest burger you've got—no onions, extra pickles—curly fries, and a water. Please."

She gives him a grin and a wink, "That'll be right up." And then she walks away from the table, hips swaying saucily.

He leans his head back on the booth, running his hands over his tired face. He scratches the back of his fuzzy head and lets out a quiet chuckle.

Otis squawks from its spot on the table, curiosity emanating from the tilt of its beak.

Stiles just chuckles louder, then sighs.

No one else is really around him, so he isn't so self-conscious when he says to the bird, "It's nothing, really. Just weird how everything is so familiar and completely different at the same time. Seeing Kathy just reinforced how bizarre this is." Stiles jumps when a voice sounds to his right.

"Talking to your bird again, I take it?" It's the confused garbage man.

Ugh.

Stiles looks over to see the guy carrying a tub full of dishes and a wet rag.

"No, no, just talking to myself. Making a grocery list, you see." Stiles smiles at the man winningly.

"Uh-huh," he replies. "You new around here? I haven't seen you in here before?"

Of course, it's the one question Stiles didn't want him to ask. Nothing good ever comes from people wanting to know your intentions when you have no valid form of ID.

"Yep, just moved here, hence, the grocery list."

"Well, my name's Jim. What's yours?" The man asks, pleasantly enough. Stiles wants to throttle him.

"You can call me Miguel." Technically, it isn't a lie, Stiles supposes. The man _could_ call him Miguel. He would be _wrong_ , but Stiles wouldn't give a shit.

Jim looks Stiles over, from his pale skin to his utter lack of Latino features, and snorts. "Okay, Miguel, what are—" and then Kathy marches back over to his table. She sets a glass of water down and throws a straw at Stiles' hands.

When she turns to Jim her mouth presses into a tight line. "Don't you have dishes to wash, _Jimmy_?"

He winces, "Yes, ma'am."

"Then I suggest you go do them instead of bothering this poor guy," and with that, Jim gives Stiles one last, lingering look and walks back into the kitchen.

"Sorry about him," Kathy continues. "He's new. I'll bring you a milkshake, on the house for having to deal with him." Then, she too disappears into the kitchen.

 _That was really weird._

And that was how Jimmy, the _I mustache you a shitload of questions_ garbage man made it onto Stiles' radar.

Five minutes later Kathy gives him his meal and a strawberry shake—he doesn't know how she knew his favorite, having no explanation other than that she's a food slinging goddess.

He unwraps the paper from around his burger and sets it aside.

"Caw, caw," Otis shrieks from across the booth. Stiles looks down at his plate and then looks back up at the raven.

"Seriously, you're going to eat my food? You're not even flesh and blood—you're made out of magic and tree bark!"

"Caw, CAW!"

Stiles tosses a few fries, hoping it will shut up. Otis starts pecking happily at them.

Content with his solution, Stiles picks up his burger and takes a big bite.

He groans in delight.

The bell above the diner door chimes.

Stiles swallows. He takes a sip from his shake, and then a sip from his water.

Which he promptly spits back out.

And that's when Stiles sees a Beacon Hills deputy sheriff walk through the door.


	3. Better Living Through Chemistry

The history Stiles has with Tony's Diner is rather long, but it's not very complicated. One of the first—and best—memories he has of his mom is of her throwing back her head and laughing at his dad, all while sitting in a red vinyl booth. She's just smeared some of the whipped cream from her milkshake across his father's face, and Stiles remembers clearly, so clearly, the love radiating from both of them.

His dad just shook his head fondly, turning towards Stiles, making faces and trying to lick the whip off of his nose with his tongue.

Stiles was four at the time.

He really believes in sense memory, because every milkshake Stiles has eaten since has just _had_ to have extra whipped cream.

Stiles thinks it's because it reminds him of what true love looks like—what true love tastes like.

In other words, the Stilinskis have been proud patrons of Tony's for decades.

It's where his mom used to go after church on Sundays as a kid; it was on one of those Sundays that she discovered her favorite meal, the one that became her standing order—banana pancakes with blueberry syrup.

It's the first place his dad ate at when he moved to Beacon Hills, his service Glock unfired and his deputy badge still shiny and new.

It was where Claudia Gajos and Noah Stilinski had their first date. He tripped over the welcome mat and she grabbed his hand to steady him. She ordered pancakes for dinner, and Noah didn't bat an eyelash. She decided then and there that he might be the one.

Tony's was were Stiles had his sixth birthday party—the robotic demon mice at the Chuck E. Cheese's two towns over scared the shit out of him, and the last time they were there he pelted them with a dozen plastic balls that he'd "requisitioned" from the ball pit. It was the birthday where Scott had an asthma attack, Jackson made fun of him—yeah, kids are fucking tools—Stiles punched Jackson in the eye, and then they were both escorted to different corners of the diner to sit in time-out. It was the last birthday party Stiles invited Jackson Whittemore to.

It was also the place that Stiles and his dad ate at every night when his mom was committed to Beacon Hills Hospital's long-term care ward. Stiles tried ordering banana pancakes with blueberry syrup, but it just tasted wrong without his mom sitting next to him.

Stiles was eight at the time.

For a year after that first, silent visit, the two Stilinski men practically lived at Tony's. The owner, a lady named Patricia—go figure—ended up keeping a pot of strong coffee on the edge of the counter closest to the entrance so that newly appointed deputy sheriff could come in and refill his cup anytime that he needed.

It was during that year that Stiles decided to help out around the house—cleaning, learning how much laundry detergent was _too much_ , scalding his hands on the stovetop while trying to make boxed macaroni and cheese. He tried to worry about the little things so that his dad could worry about the bigger ones.

Stiles was nine at the time—at the time that his mother finally passed away, her brain finally rotted away to the point where it just couldn't function anymore.

That day was February 3, 2004.

After that day, the two Stilinski men didn't return to Tony's for a month, the memories of Claudia too abundant, too haunting, to sit in a booth and enjoy a meal.

But one night, Stiles dropped the chicken. He was trying to put it in a pan, but it was just too slippery, and it fell right on the floor. Stiles remembers his dad running into the kitchen, alarmed by Stiles' loud sobs.

He had just wanted to make mom's lemon chicken. But then the chicken fell.

And Stiles—Stiles just couldn't take it anymore. So, he started to cry.

He cried for the chicken. He cried for the wasted lemons. He cried because he'd have to clean it up, and he cried because they were all out of wet wipes.

But most importantly, Stiles cried for his mom, and his dad—and perhaps, most importantly of all—he cried for himself.

His father rushed into the kitchen, work shirt unbuttoned and eyes bloodshot, and was horrified by the sight of his son. He instantly scooped him up into the tightest of hugs and let Stiles cry.

He might've let himself cry, too.

But Stiles didn't know that.

After both of their eyes were dry, Noah sat Stiles down at the kitchen table and wiped up the mess. Noah took Stiles' hand in his own, and they both climbed into the cruiser. When they reached the diner's parking lot, Noah turned off the engine and stared at the dash.

Stiles remembers that they both sat in the car for ten minutes before they decided to actually go into the restaurant.

They both ordered banana pancakes with blueberry syrup, and Kathy, their favorite waitress, comped their meals.

She also might've cried in the walk-in freezer. But Stiles didn't know that.

Stiles and his dad spent the entire night, laughing and smiling—just remembering Claudia in a special place they had once shared together.

It was such a good night that later, when Stiles was finally tucked into bed and his head was on a pillow, he finally had a good night's sleep.

From then on, Stiles and his dad made a new tradition. Every Tuesday and Thursday they would visit Tony's. Whether they were hungry, or they just wanted a place to sit down and unwind together—for an hour or a five-minute coffee run—they visited Tony's diner every Tuesday and Thursday. It was the place where they were reminded that they were still, at least in spirit, a family of three.

So, knowing all of that—already _living_ through it—Stiles shouldn't be as shocked as he is.

But here Stiles sits, on March 23, 2004—a _Tuesday—_ completely fucking blindsided.

 _Holy shit._

Here Stiles sits, heart in his throat and palms itchy, watching a Beacon Hills deputy sheriff— _his fucking dad—_ enter Tony's Diner.

The bell chimes a second time and Stiles can't look away because he knows, he just knows, who's going to walk through next and—

Yep, that's _him._

There he is, moles and all. A mini-me, full technicolor and in 3-D. Stiles doesn't even need those special movie glasses to see how freaking bizarre this whole thing is.

 _Holy fucking shit._

He allows himself a look, well, let's be honest—he allows himself a creepy, agonizingly obvious stare.

You can't stare at nine-year-olds without it being creepy, even if it's a younger you from the past.

And then he looks away, down at his burger. He's still hungry, so he forces himself to relax; he has to relax because the only other viable option is diving under his table and hiding his face in his hands.

He watches them out of the corner of his eye, both his dad and Mischief—don't even bother asking his nine-year-old self to pronounce his real name, looking at you _Poland_ —have taken a seat at the counter. They're ordering to-go.

They seem happy.

Stiles feels Otis nudge its beak under his chin.

"I'm alright," he mumbles. "I'm just afraid I'm going to do something stupid like tackle my dad or tell small Stiles that Jackson Whittemore ends up turning into a slimy, ugly lizard."

"Caw, caw." Otis sounds understanding—for a bird, anyway.

Stiles knows that he can't confront his dad—not now. It's too soon for both of them. Plus he has a whole massacre to stop from happening.

Stiles snorts.

 _There's more than just a burger on his plate._

He looks over at them again. His dad's paying the bill and his hand is resting on Mischief's shoulder.

Then they walk out.

And Stiles? Stiles, his eyes blurred with unshed tears, picks up his burger and takes another bite.

* * *

After leaving the diner, with a full stomach and Jimmy's full name—thank you, Kathy, you glorious gossip—Stiles makes his way back to the library.

It's only 8:15 and Stiles wants to check and see if any of his contacts—god, how James Bond is he?—have answered his e-mails. The Beacon Hills' library is the only one around, so it stays open pretty late.

It's also because Ms. Nesbit likes to shelve at night. Something about not having to deal with "little hellions" like him.

Stiles doesn't think that she knows that _he knows_ just how much she hates him.

Ah, it's good to be popular.

He walks through the doors with his hood up, walking towards the computer room.

Hentai guy is gone, and in his place is another teenager. The guy doesn't even glance up. Stiles notes that he, thankfully, isn't jacking it at the cubicle. He is, however, dressed in workout clothes.

Basketball clothes, maybe? The guy would have to walk around actually carrying a basketball for Stiles to be sure. He doesn't know shit about sports that aren't lacrosse or baseball.

Stiles boots up his own computer and dives in, once again.

About an hour and a half later, Ms. Nesbit—Christ, she looks the same—pokes her head into the doorway and scowls.

"The library is closing in five minutes," she whispers furiously. Then she disappears.

Stiles looks over at not-hentai guy with his eyes wide and his brows raised. The dude catches his look and hesitantly smiles back.

Stiles leaves the guy behind, passing him as he packs up a few thick textbooks into a backpack.

He exits the building, knowing that he has one more stop before he finds a place to sleep.

Stiles hurries off into the night, Otis and the moon are his only companions.

* * *

Stiles walks quickly—but not suspiciously so—with his head down and his hands comfortably stuffed in his pockets.

He really shouldn't be taking this risk, but after seeing them earlier, he can't help himself.

Otis swoops down from the sky and parks itself on his shoulder. It turns a black, condemning eye at Stiles and says, "Caw!"

"I know, I know," Stiles sighs, "I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help it. He's my family, my _only_ family."

Judgment emanates from the bird, "Caw."

Stiles scowls, "What do you know? You don't even have a dad. I had to feel his fucking _blood_ drip from my _goddamn hands_ so yeah, sue me, I'm going to go creepily stare at him from the bushes to reassure myself that he's okay."

And with that, Otis turns away.

He slows down once he hits his street, and then he looks over each shoulder and ducks onto the little nature path that runs along the back of the development. Stiles takes his time, practically taking an evening stroll. Otis seems to be a little less judgy, as he's weaving in and out of the trees playfully—playfully?—above.

He comes to a stop when he sees a baby blue picket fence.

His mom had really loved that color.

Stiles can just hear her voice when he sees it. _Who would want a white picket fence if they could have a blue one?_

His dad had complained to his mom over and over that they needed to fix the latch, as it was prone to slamming open and shut at the slightest gust of wind.

Huh. They never did get around to fixing it.

Sneaking up to the entrance, Stiles reaches over the fence and unlatches it from the inside. He and Otis make their way through the backyard until they reach the bushes outside the house's kitchen window. There's a light on inside and Stiles can just make out the shadow of his dad's head from over the open refrigerator door.

Stiles can't help but grin. Even now, his father's always trying to sneak something past him. And failing.

Hidden creepily in the bushes—he really did hit that descriptor spot-on earlier—Stiles watches as his dad closes the fridge, taking two ice cream sandwiches out of the freezer.

Goddamnit, dad.

He's never been so fond of his father's eating habits in his life.

Stiles stands—well, squats awkwardly—rapt attention fixed on his dad as he eats both of the ice cream sandwiches.

This is why you did this, Stiles thinks to himself—this is why you said "fuck you" to the universe and went back.

As he watches his dad throw away the wrappers and turn off the lights, ducking when he comes to turn the backdoor's lock, Stiles can't help but feel a sense of victory. He did this. His dad is fine. They're all going _to be_ fine. This moment, ice cream sandwich sweet, is exactly why he did it.

The Stilinski house goes dark, and Stiles discovers that he still can't find it within himself to regret it.

* * *

Otis and Stiles make their way down to the seedier side of town. Stiles laughs out loud because it's funny—it's really goddamn funny. It's funny because Stiles, or at least a part of his subconscious, has always known where he was going to sleep once he made it to the past.

Because _of course_ he was. What place could be more fitting?

So, Stiles walks with a slight skip in his step towards his destination. He walks and he skips, laughing all the while.

He giggles all of the way until he reaches the entrance to the abandoned train depot.

Otis cocks its head to the side and judges the squalor with beady eyes.

And Stiles is still cackling. Between shaky breaths, he gasps out a loud, "Honey, I'm home!"

He finds himself a space, his space, the one where he spent a week researching pack dynamics and communication. Then he strips off his hoodie and balls it up into a pillow. Settling down on the ground, Stiles stretches out his limbs. He measures his breathing and looks inside himself. He pokes at his magic, waking it up with a murmur of soft words and a sharp _snap!_ of his fingers. A thin, membranous dome forms over his head. Otis scoots closer to Stiles' body, watching the swirling midnight sparks of magic form a cohesive bubble.

Stiles takes another breath and breathes out the warm air in his lungs, directing it higher and higher until it touches the dome.

Upon contact, the dusky sparkles of the membrane turn bright orange, and then everything settles into a calm, deep blue.

The air around Stiles heats up until he's comfortable and toasty. He pulls Otis closer to him and snuggles into the floor.

Of an abandoned train depot.

Then Stiles falls asleep.

* * *

Stiles wakes up on his second day in the past in the exact same way that he did on his first: uncomfortable and being pecked at by a large, annoying bird.

He opens his bleary eyes, too tired to really glare at Otis, but stubborn enough to try anyway.

Sitting up, Stiles twists his back—sleeping on a floor, not your brightest idea Stilinksi—and makes a move to stand up. He's feeling a little smug, as it looks like his heated force field stayed strong all night.

Reversing time, making a glorified electric blanket—Stiles has to say he's got this magic thing in the bag.

He dusts himself off and holds out his arm for Otis. Then together, they head back into town.

Stiles has a plan. But, he needs a little money and a little face-time with the people who responded to his e-mails. So, the first item to check off of his list is cash—both cold and hard.

He grins an evil grin. He really likes the first part of the plan.

Thirty minutes later finds Stiles Stilinski in the backyard of an unfamiliar house and under the guise of a pretty sweet cloaking spell—no sight, no sound, no smell, no prints, no Stiles. He's using his knife to fiddle with the backdoor's lock—don't worry, he's purified the knife with magic, it's so much better than bleach—when there's a _click!_ and the door pops open.

Fuck, he loves magic.

Looking around the space, Stiles hurriedly closes the door and gets to work.

He rifles through drawers and looks in cupboards. Nothing.

He goes upstairs and looks through the master bedroom, then the master bath. Nothing, except for some sex stuff that Stiles isn't really surprised about—because of course _he_ has that shit—, but he's definitely still scarred by.

A blast of that magic bleach might not be enough to erase the images from his mind.

There's only one other place that he wants to check, so he heads down into the basement.

What he's after is hidden next to a stack of old scientific journals and a few Halloween decorations. Stiles pushes aside a plastic pumpkin and contemplates the safe sitting on the shelf in front of him. It takes Stiles all of two minutes to figure out the combination, no magic involved.

 _It can't be that easy._

But he rotates the dial, just in case it is.

 _60-22-10-23_

The safe cracks open.

Stiles lets out a triumphant whoop. He looks over the contents of the safe and his smile widens. He grabs everything that he can and stuffs the bills into every pocket he has. Otis even snatches up a bundle of cash with its beak.

Stiles is about to close the safe when he gets an idea. An awful idea.

Stiles has a wonderful, awful, idea.

He scrambles back upstairs and grabs a notepad and pen from the junk drawer he found during his initial ransacking of the kitchen. He marches back downstairs and scribbles down a few damning words. He folds the paper and sticks it inside the empty safe. Stiles cackles and shuts the door.

 _Whittemore was here._

Otis and Stiles make their way back up the basement steps, Stiles amusing himself with how his plan actually worked better than he anticipated.

For those of you DIY-ing it at home, Plan M goes a little like this:

Need money? Find a house. Find a house belonging to a person with a decent amount of cash.

How will you know if the house has cash? Well, the person you have in mind might just live alone, and he might just be the right amounts of pretentious and paranoid to stash away large bundles of money.

Next, you're going to have to ask yourself, when will everyone be gone? The homeowner, the neighbors? The best time to rob someone is during the day because nobody's usually home and nobody really expects a thief at ten in the morning.

It might also help if you already know, in advance, _exactly_ where the homeowner/your new unknowing benefactor is going to be at ten in the morning. Yeah, that might help a lot.

So, you've got a guy in mind. Check.

He's haughty—enough of a jackass that you don't really feel bad about robbing him blind—and just stupid enough to keep large amounts of cash at home. Check.

You've got his schedule figured out. Oh hell yeah, you do.

Then you get your magic bird and your magic self and you break into his house in the middle of the day, stealing all of his money, and leaving no trace of yourself behind. Check.

Then you calmly walk away from the scene, making sure to keep your cloaking spell up until you're far away and in the clear. Check.

Then you might pat yourself and your bird on the back for a job well done, and you might just laugh at the fact that you finally settled the score after years of torment.

Yeah, Plan M goes a little something like that.

Fuck yeah, Stiles _loves_ magic.

* * *

Stiles meets with his contacts and leaves each meeting a few thousand dollars lighter. He whistles to himself after the last one, wrapping up his eventful day at 6 pm.

Lords and ladies, thank you for shady crooks and magical artifact dealers.

Now, Stiles has a driver's license—it actually says "Stiles" instead of the monstrosity that is his real name—a social security card, an enchanted briefcase—attaché?—a new knife, and a few dozen baggies of various herbs and powders. All of this, and the rest of his ill-gotten gains, conveniently fit in his _spacious_ new bag—Hermione eat your heart out—and Stiles can't help but feel smug.

 _So_ smug.

He and Otis stop by the grocery store and pick up some wrapped sandwiches and a soda.

Stiles walks through town as he eats, his new bag strapped to one shoulder and Otis strapped to the other.

When he reaches the doors of the library, he tosses his trash in the garbage and wanders inside. It's past eight, and the place is just as deserted as last night. He goes back into the stacks, finding the plush couch that he always sits at, and freezes.

The guy from last night is sitting there, highlighter in his mouth and knee jumping up and down. Stiles, though brave from his earlier victories, decides not to approach.

He plops himself down in nonfiction, back to the stacks, and selects a book at random. It isn't the first time he's read to shut his brain off for a while.

He's about a quarter-ways through the book when a pair of basketball sneakers—hell yes, he guessed right the first time—come to rest next to his legs.

Stiles looks up at the guy.

He's rather pretty, in an all-American, wholesome kind of way.

The guy, again with the hesitant smile, crouches down next to Stiles and says, "Hey, I saw you earlier. I'm headed out."

Confused, Stiles looks over his shoulder. "Uh, okay? Have a good night."

The guy huffs a laugh, his smile growing a bit. "No, I mean, I saw that you wanted to sit at the couch. I thought you might want to move there after I'm gone. It can't be comfortable sitting on the floor."

Stiles stares at him, completely thrown by his thoughtfulness.

The guy's cheeks turn faintly red.

"Thanks!" Stiles stands quickly. "That's really nice of you. Do you come here a lot? I saw you here yesterday."

"Yeah, it's hard to get anything done at my house. It's pretty crowded." The guy looks away, and mumbles at the floor, "Are you new around here? I've never seen you at the high school before?"

Stiles shakes his head, "Nah, man, I just moved here. But maybe we'll see each other around the stacks?"

The guy's smile fills out completely. It's really nice. "Yeah, totally. See you later."

Shy guy packs up his backpack and grabs a sweatshirt from off the floor. When he passes back by Stiles, Stiles holds out his hand. "Hey, I'm Stiles, Stiles Stilinski."

The guy takes his hand—okay, really firm grip there, dude—and shakes it.

"My name's Derek, Derek Hale."

And with that, he walks out of the library and into the night.


	4. Are You There Derek? It's Me, Stiles

The first time that Stiles met Derek Hale, they were in the woods. The guy growled at him about private property and threw an inhaler at Scott.

The _second_ first time that Stiles met Derek Hale, they were in the library. The guy went out of his way to make sure that Stiles was _comfortable._

Stiles feels like his brain is exploding. Sure, he knew, somewhere deep down inside that Derek was probably a normal enough kid before the fire. He just didn't realize how drastically Derek had changed.

No leather, no scowl, no scruff, no eyebrows of doom—it's the most bizarre thing that Stiles has experienced in his entire life.

And he just saw his eight-year-old self, like, 24 hours ago.

Derek Hale was just standing in front of him, and Stiles didn't even recognize him. Maybe it was because this Derek talked. He spoke to Stiles, using actual _words._ Maybe it was the way this Derek held himself—a little shy, but strong, like he knew who he was, or at least who he wanted to be. Maybe it was the fact that this Derek didn't throw him against a wall or bash his face into a steering wheel—yeah, Stiles is _still_ feeling that one.

Maybe it was because this Derek didn't throw a bone saw at him and order Stiles to cut off his fucking arm.

Yeah, Stiles is _still_ not quite over that one.

It could be a combination of all of those things, but Stiles thinks that it's because this Derek Hale has life behind his eyes, a spark of something vital, something fun and carefree.

The Derek he knew didn't have anything behind his eyes, other than a black lake of guilt so vast and so dark that Stiles was surprised that Derek hadn't already drowned in his own self-loathing. No, there was nothing behind his Derek's eyes—they were too busy constantly checking over his shoulder, waiting for another devil to drag him back down into hell.

Derek never talked about his family, about his life before the fire. The only information he ever gave freely about them was when it was an emergency (i.e. they were all going to die).

Derek never talked about them, and neither did Peter.

But Stiles, Stiles pretty much knew everything anyway. It wasn't very hard to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

The first time that he saw Derek talk about Kate, Stiles suspected. After all, he had memorized the police report as soon as he realized that Laura Hale was the body they found in the woods. He knew that a whole family wouldn't have been trapped in a house, secret tunnels blocked, if the arsonist didn't have some sort of inside information. So, when Derek talked about Kate, and Stiles saw the absolute _agony_ in Derek's eyes, Stiles had suspected.

A sixteen-year-old kid was a pretty good in—Stiles just hadn't expected just how _good_ of an in Kate had made him.

Stiles _knew_ the first time he saw Kate Argent look at Derek.

He remembers the wildness in her eyes, a starving darkness that whispered of amusement, lust, and ownership.

 _Ownership._

When he went home that night—the night after Stiles realized just what Kate had done to a sixteen-year-old Derek—he locked himself in his bathroom and threw up in the toilet.

Then he upgraded Kate from Plan H—"H" for "Hunter," Stiles knows, not very clever—to Plan B, for "Bitchy Child Rapist."

It seemed more fitting.

The guilt and the shame he had seen in Derek's eyes were somehow even more real, and Stiles didn't sleep that night.

Stiles was never really sorry that Peter had ripped her throat out.

* * *

So, here Stiles sits, ruminating in the train depot. After the bomb Derek dropped on him—you know, his fucking _identity—_ Stiles couldn't even bring himself to look at another book.

He needed to think, so he went to the one place where he could be alone.

Well, sort of—Otis is perched over on one of the rails.

Stiles knows the next step in his plan, meeting the Hales—or rather, insinuating himself in their lives and beating each of them over the head with his friendship until they're assimilated and resigned to their fates as his little puppies to watch over—he knows he needs to start soon, but now it's going to be awkward.

Because Stiles is conflicted. He wants to _know_ this Derek.

No—not _this_ Derek, Stiles reminds himself—there's just the one now.

He's not quite sure how to deal with the grief behind that thought.

But still, Stiles wants to know Derek.

He wants to know what he eats, what he wears, what he watches on TV. He wants to know if Derek has friends or if he uses his werewolfy powers to dunk at his basketball games, _Teen Wolf_ style. Stiles wants to understand the kid behind the man he knew as Sourwolf.

So Stiles deliberates. Should he start talking to Derek first, before he announces himself to the Hale Alpha (his money is on that being Derek's mom, from his research she was a ruthless defense attorney)? Or should he go to Talia Hale first and lay his cards—well, most of them anyway—on the table and try to befriend Derek after?

If he does it the first way, he'll be just like Kate. Knowingly going into a relationship with Derek under false pretenses.

Stiles shudders.

The second option it is.

Stiles looks around the depot, settling back against the ground once more. He conjures up his magically heated force field and stares up at the twinkling blue sparks. Otis flaps over to Stiles' makeshift nest of new blankets and pillows—crime really does pay—and tuckers down next to his head.

Stiles can't help but run through his plan.

Go back in time—check.

Establish an outlet of information—check.

Money, documents, ID—heh, check.

Base of operations—sort of?

Now all he has left to do is stop all of that whacked-out shit from happening.

To stop his friends and family from dying.

Oh, and to stop Derek's spark from being snuffed out by a psychotic arsonist/killer—arsassin?—who wants to murder his entire family.

Should be easy enough.

Yeah, Stiles gulps, no biggie.

* * *

Stiles waits until Saturday to knock on the Hale's front door. He figures that weekdays are shitty enough, so he chooses to wait a couple of days before he launches himself, his paranoid craziness, and his cranky magical tree/bird into the Hales' lives. The plan isn't to tell them everything—he's not _new_ at this—but he wants Talia to know that he's here to stay and that he's serious about making Beacon Hills a safe place to live. And maybe that might, you know, clue her in that it _isn't._

Stiles figures that he'll introduce himself, talk to Talia for a bit, finagle an invite to lunch, and then go along his merry way.

It's about eleven in the morning on Saturday, and Stiles is walking through the preserve—holy shit, a _walk_ through the woods, how novel is that?—thanking whatever lord above and demon below that he isn't currently running away from a monster or bleeding out on the forest floor.

It's the small things he's thankful for.

He's just crossing a small ditch when he sees it. The Hale house.

Scratch that, the Hale mansion.

Stiles tries to overlay his memory of the Hale house he knew over the one he's looking at—and he decides pretty quickly that he likes it better this way.

There's no burnt-out windows or splintered wood. There isn't the smell of charred earth, and it doesn't inspire a feeling of utter dread.

What it does have is a roof. A roof, a billion windows, and a cheerful red mailbox at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway.

Yeah, he definitely prefers this look—the last one was _so_ 2012\. Heh.

Time jokes will never not be funny, not now, not to Stiles.

He makes his way up the driveway, touching the trunks of every other tree he passes. He feels nothing but natural growth in each. There's no thrum of protective wards, no sigils visible to Stiles or to his magic. The nemeton isn't even connected to the trees that surround the Hale house.

 _Deaton._

Well, at least he knows what his first contribution to the pack will be. Stiles calls out to Otis, who dives down from the air and onto the branch above Stiles' head.

"I need you to circle the acres surrounding the Hale property. See if you can find any kinds of magic bound to the area."

Otis raises its beak at him. "Caw, caw, caw."

"Fine, I'll get you some more french fries later. But first, you have to go do this."

"Caw." And then Otis flies away.

That fucking bird.

Stiles finally gets to the front of the house—damn, are those stained glass windows?—and makes his way up to the door.

He knocks three times and then stuffs his hands into his pockets.

A little girl opens the door.

"Hi," the girl scowls at him. "Who're you?"

Fuck, she's adorable and scary. An adorable and scary werewolf. He's not sure what to do with that. "Stiles. How about you?"

She scowls harder, "Why do you need to know that?"

My god, a suspicious cynic at what, 9 years old? "That's just polite—you know what? Never mind. Is Talia Hale home?"

The girl's look turns a little assessing. "Yeah," and then she slams the door shut in Stiles' face.

Fucking _werewolves_. Maybe they're just grumpy shitheads from birth, Stiles muses.

It takes all of ten seconds for the door to swing open again. He meets the steady gaze of an alpha werewolf—the gaze of Talia Hale.

"Can I help you?" she asks, eyes fixed and smile a bit forced.

"Yeah, I'm Stiles. I just moved into town and thought it best that I come and introduce myself to you when you weren't busy," he motions around himself, "so here I am, doing that."

Her intent stare becomes puzzled. She takes a step forward, cocking her hip and resting it against the door frame. "Why would you want to go and do a thing like that?" she asks, bemused.

Stiles grins widely and leans in closer to her. "Because I noticed that you don't have a single protective rune etched anywhere on your property."

Talia blinks, startled, and her posture becomes loose, ready to react. "And what would you know about runes, young Stiles?"

"Oh," Stiles blinks. "Didn't I mention? I can do this."

And with a _snap!_ of his fingers and not a whisper of a word to be heard, a blue flame appears over his hand.

Talia's eyes widen and her mouth opens a fraction.

Then Stiles snaps his fingers again, and the flame disappears. "Yeah, let me try this again. I'm Stiles. I just got here a few days ago, I'm magic, and I need to talk to you about a few things."

Alpha Hale's eyes flash red, and then she breaks out into a sharp smile.

"Well, then, Stiles. You'd better come in."

* * *

As he walks through the Hale household, Stiles can't help but be intimidated by the sheer number of people hanging about. He counts a dozen, and he can see a bunch of kids running around in the backyard.

Derek was totally right, it is crowded in here.

Each person they pass gives him the side-eye, but no one says anything. Not a single comment. Not a single sound.

Talia leads him into a spacious office, a desk—more like the wet-dream of a Wall Street executive—sits in the center. Talia prowls over to the high-backed office chair and takes a seat. She motions for him to do the same.

She stares at him before saying, "Begin."

And then he does.

He tells her about his arrival into town on Tuesday. Stiles tells her that he's been studying magic for a while and that he wants to offer her his services, as he needs a job and she needs—emphasis on the _needs—_ his kind of protection.

At that, she gives him a searching look. "We already have a magic-user among us—though many of my pack are unaware of his involvement. Why would I need the aid of another?"

A touch of frustration bubbles up Stiles' throat. "With no disrespect, Alpha Hale," he says, disrespectfully, "you've got a house full of people dependent upon your leadership. You have to juggle a lot of different things, mundane, supernatural, whatever. You need to have a better backup plan than the absolute _nothing_ that you have currently." Stiles pauses, willing himself to calm down. He leans over the desk and rests his elbows on the top. He steeples his fingers together and meets her penetrating gaze.

"I know what it's like to lose everything you love," Stiles begins. Talia flinches at the truth of the statement and the bitter scent of agony permeating the air. "I know what that's like, and I don't ever want you to be a member of that particular club. I have a bad feeling, Alpha Hale, and it's the sort of bad that I can't shake without your cooperation. You can monitor me, you can vette me, hell, you can never let me inside your house again, but let me help protect this town. I have this unshakable feeling that I'm the only thing standing in the way of something catastrophic, and I'm pretty much never wrong about this sort of thing. Trust me."

Stiles knows his heartbeat remained steady throughout his entire plea. This whole knowing the future and the imminent danger it possesses is really handy for situations like this.

And Talia? Talia looks completely bewildered. And sad, so fucking sad.

"Why do you care so much for my family?" she asks. "Why this town? Why us?"

Stiles sucks in a breath. He answers in one simple statement, voice small, "My pack is dead, and I couldn't stop it in time."

He closes his eyes.

 _Don't look, Stiles._

Then he meets Talia's shattered expression with his own, carefully blank, "I have this feeling that something bad is going to happen to your pack, and I think that I can be in time for you guys—that I can be in time to stop whatever's coming."

Talia reaches across the desk and takes his shaking hands into her own. She squeezes once, and then just keeps holding on.

Stiles ducks his head.

"My brother will have to do a background check."

Stiles' head snaps back up.

"And, you'll be escorted by one of my betas at all times. At least until I'm sure you mean us no harm." She gives him a small smile, a mother's smile.

Hope rises in Stiles' chest. He watches as Otis, unseen and sneaky, swoops in through the back wall and lands on his shoulder.

"As for the money, we'll be happy to discuss your ideas further, once your information comes back clean."

Stiles is beaming, tears are forming at the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, and Stiles," she continues, "where exactly are you staying at the moment?"

Stiles splutters, "Uh, well, nowhere really. I've looked through the paper and there are some listings for condos and a few apartments on the east end, oh!, and also they're thinking about restoring some old industrial lofts that look—" and he goes quiet when Talia squeezes his hands again.

"It's settled then," she pushes back from the desk and rises, "you'll be staying with us."

What.

 _What?_

Talia's eyes are soft when she looks down at Stiles' confused face. "But, but what if I am bad news? What?" he babbles.

"I think I can handle Stiles the teenage witch," she winks. "I handle teenage werewolves on a daily basis." And with a nod, she walks out the door, calling over her shoulder a loud, "Derek will help you settle in."

 _What?_

Stiles stands on jelly legs and thinks about this new development.

Huh. It actually makes a lot of sense. Why didn't he think about this—

Then Derek Hale walks through the office door. He looks over Stiles guardedly, "Hey."

"Hey," Stiles gulps back.

Oh yeah, that's why.

They met once in a library and now Stiles is moving in.

 _So fucking awkward. Christ._

Otis squawks, amused.

Stiles offers Derek a limp half-wave. "Uh, hi there Derek! Long-time, no see!"

Derek scowls at Stiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Now, that looks familiar.

Derek sighs and looks at him seriously, "What bunk do you want, top or bottom?"

"Uhh, top?" Stiles says quickly.

Derek huffs, spins on his heel, and exits the room with a, "Follow me."

Stiles stands there, momentarily shocked.

Wait, bunk beds. With Derek Hale.

 _Wait, what?_


	5. Peter Hale, Private Investigator

Stiles is currently scrambling to catch up to Derek—trying not to trip over all of the people he passes along the way—and all he can think about is what Derek has just said.

 _Bunk beds._

Stiles will take "things he never thought Derek Hale would say, ever, even under the threat of death" for $400, Alex.

He reaches the third floor—holy crap, this place is huge—and spots Derek leaning against a wall at the far end of the hall. He passes by an open doorway, only to spot the little girl with the attitude of a curmudgeonly old man sitting on the floor playing Barbies.

Okay, maybe she's more adorable than scary after all.

She glances over her shoulder, sees Stiles, and scowls. She marches over to her door and slams it shut in Stiles' face.

Okay, never mind. She's definitely frightening.

He reaches Derek, who is steadfastly refusing to meet his gaze. Then, he waves Stiles into the room. Stiles enters, looking around nosily. He gives the Linkin Park poster a snort and then starts rummaging through Derek's belongings.

Derek watches him from the doorway, arms crossed and face pinched. He clears his throat.

Slightly chastised, Stiles pauses with his hands on a _Clueless_ DVD—holy shit, the mother lode—and looks back a Derek.

The silence stretches on—Otis cawing at Stiles mockingly.

"So," Stiles starts, "bunk beds, huh?" He motions towards the large structure.

Derek's cheeks turn pink—oh crap, that's sickeningly cute—and he frowns. "We're almost done renovating the east wing. I've had to share with my cousins while they wait for their rooms to be finished."

And Stiles can't even.

 _Holy fucking shit._

What a softie. Christ.

"Cool," Stiles mutters, "cool, cool, cool. So, it looks like we're roomies now. Any rules I should know about?"

He's still digging through Derek's drawers—yep, that's a Smash Mouth CD—when Derek stalks over and snatches the thing out of his hand. Derek slams the desk drawer shut and says, "Yeah, don't go through my shit."

Such an easy opening, Stiles doesn't even have to _try_ and he's able to annoy Derek. Stiles smiles widely, "Oh, you mean like this?" And then he proceeds to run around the room, touching every object he can reach. Derek growls and runs after him, finally tackling Stiles to the ground next to the bookshelf—oooh, comics!

Stiles just laughs, open and carefree, underneath Derek. Derek just sits there above him, looking confused.

Stiles waggles his eyebrows at Derek, "Is that any way to treat your new roommate? What, were you raised by _wolves_?"

Then Derek chokes on-air and springs off of Stiles, alarmed. He backs away, mumbling a, "Sorry," through clenched teeth. He's looking at Stiles like he's trying to figure him out.

"It's cool, man," Stiles says as he gets up. "I've been known to have that rage-inducing effect on people." He looks around the room—Jesus, there's a reading nook—before glancing back at Derek and saying, "Look, I'm sorry your mom kind of dumped me on you. I'm really not one for invading people's private spaces if I don't have to. If you want, I can ask her if I can sleep somewhere else. She just—well, I don't know the _why_ exactly, but she just saw that I needed somewhere to crash, and she sort of mom'd me into staying here."

When Stiles stops for breath, he sees Derek looking at him in a new light.

"You don't have anywhere to sleep?" He looks distraught.

"Nah, man, I kind of came into town last minute, didn't have a place set up. I was kind of squatting in a place—holy crap I haven't taken a shower in like a week!" Stiles kind of blows his own mind with that information, and by the looks of it, he's certainly blown Derek's, too.

Derek seems to be trying to take a subtle—hint: it's not—sniff of the air, "You don't smell like you haven't."

"Well, yeah," Stiles answers, "it's because I can hide stuff like scent and sound. I've really gotten the hang of cloaking things recently and I've discovered that it's too much fun to stop."

Derek's face is absolutely blank, "What?"

Stiles looks over his shoulder back at Otis, who's pecking at a half-eaten Moon Pie on the desk. "What, what?"

If Derek's eyebrows were any closer together, they'd be fused into one, ultimate caterpillar. "What are you talking about? Cloaking?"

Then it clicks.

 _We already have a magic-user among us—though many of my pack are unaware of his involvement._

Derek rushing off of Stiles in fear, the attempts to keep his wolfy smeller subtle—Derek doesn't know that _Stiles knows_ about werewolves.

Derek doesn't know that Stiles is a magical guru—okay that's stretching it a bit, but a dude's got to have some pride in his work.

Holy shit.

This is _hilarious._

It's hilarious, so Stiles starts laughing. Derek just looks even more befuddled, so Stiles laughs louder.

"You," gasp, "don't," hiccup, "know,"—and he doubles over, ribs—yeah, the still broken ones—aching from his giggle fit.

"Whatever," Derek growls. "Do you need to go get your stuff from wherever you were squatting?" He turns and walks to the door, as if ready to go and retrieve Stiles' stuff right this very minute.

So fucking _nice._

"Nah, I got it wolf-boy." Derek freezes, back stiff and shoulders raised.

Stiles quickly recounts a Greek spell, and then he's got an armful of his bag and his blanket nest.

Derek turns around, "What did you just call me?"

"Oh, that? Wolf-boy. Not really original for werewolves, I know, but give me time. They'll get better."

Derek is absolutely flabbergasted, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. "You know about us?"

"Of course. I'm here to help you guys out. Why else would your mom want me to stay here?"

"I thought she was just being nice but—" and Derek relaxes. "Okay, woah, wow. I mean, I've never met someone that you know, _knew_." He's shaking his head disbelievingly and then smiles over at Stiles, "Wow, okay, um this is kind of huge for me, so sorry if I was being a jerk. I wasn't looking forward to having to hide in my own home."

Stiles sobers a little at Derek's words. "I can understand that. My offer still remains, you know. I could sleep on the couch or something—a tent outside or maybe the flower _beds_?"

Derek's lips twitch, and then he laughs at Stiles' lame joke.

 _Derek laughs at Stiles' joke._

Then Derek looks at Stiles' hands, specifically at the belongings that had materialized while his back was turned. "Where did you get all of that?"

Stiles beams and says enthusiastically, "Magic!"

Derek snorts, lifting an eyebrow, "Uh-huh. Did you get a unicorn to deliver them like some sort of mystical UPS system?"

 _Unicorn Parcel Service._

Stiles is impressed.

He tuts at Derek, dropping his shit on the ground. He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head, disappointed, "Derek Hale, you are a mythical hairy creature—a fucking _werewolf_ —and you're telling me that _you_ don't believe in _magic?_ " He claps his hands together under his chin, praying for Derek to get a clue. "I can't believe your mom has left you _this_ in the dark." He pauses, "Actually, this explains a lot."

Derek gets a bit touchy at that. "My mom doesn't—what are you trying to say? Magic isn't actually—"

Stiles shuts him up with a wave of his left hand. The room goes dark—the space completely black, save for the glow of Derek's eyes, golden and indignant.

Stiles claps once, and the entire room lights up with thousands of tiny, glowing butterflies—each one an electric blue, wings threaded with bright white. The blackness of the room fades as the butterflies drift and float.

Derek's eyes are no longer glowing and no longer indignant.

He's looking around the room with childlike wonder, pure and uncensored.

"You've got a little something on your hand, Sourwolf," Stiles says, amused.

Derek lifts his arm, looking down at the butterfly perched on his fingers in delight. He looks back up at Stiles, grinning.

"So, magic?" Derek clarifies.

"Yeah," Stiles answers, "magic."

* * *

After clearing out all of the butterflies, Derek takes Stiles into the kitchen, makes him a sandwich, and then drags him out onto the Hale property—all the while asking Stiles questions about magic.

Stiles answers every question.

Yes, he can make himself invisible. No, he hasn't been able to shapeshift. Stuff like that.

Until they get to the "why" and "when" Stiles started practicing—then he sort of changes the subject by casually tripping over sticks and pointing at random plants in the Hales' extensive garden.

Yeah, so maybe Stiles doesn't quite answer _all_ of Derek's questions. But he tries. For _hours._ Good lord Derek is curious.

They've slowly devolved to talking about movies and comics—Derek reads _Preacher_ , holy shit—and Stiles can't help but feel happy. A sort of happy he hasn't felt for a while, even before he traveled back into the past.

Stiles is crouching over some strawberries—okay, he's eating them—when Derek finally asks, "So why us? Why aren't you with your own pack?"

Stiles looks past Derek, eyes bright. "They're gone. I'm all that's left."

Derek looks like he was just told that pizza no longer existed—yeah, _that_ distraught. "Stiles, I—I'm so sorry, I—"

Stiles cuts him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know. Derek, I know." He smiles brokenly, "It's kind of impossible to talk about so…I'm not going to." And then Stiles trails off onto a better topic, "But to answer your other question, I'm here to help out on the magical front. There are a lot of spooky things out there, and your mom agreed to let me make this town safe from them."

"We've lived here so long—why would we need protection?" Derek whispers.

Stiles looks at him sharply, "Take it from me, Derek. There's always something you never anticipate. Always."

And then he looks away.

Stiles stands there, in the Hale garden, surrounded by blooming flowers and plants. He's standing there, staring into the distance, when Derek hugs him. When Derek just wraps his arms around Stiles and hugs him.

They both sigh.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles."

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

They stay out there, sitting side by side under a giant sycamore tree, just watching the light fade from the day. They sit out there—that is—until they hear a bossy shout.

"Dinner!" the voice calls.

Stiles and Derek scramble up and make their way back inside. A smiling brunette, maybe 20 years old, is standing on the back porch to greet them.

She looks weirdly familiar, but Stiles can't place her face.

"It's about time you guys came inside!" she complains, grinning mischievously. "Derek's hogged you all day, now it's time to come meet the rest of the family."

Stiles pales, intimidated by the sheer number of names he's definitely _not_ going to remember.

When she sees his face, her grin turns wicked, "Don't worry. We don't bite…," she pauses, "that hard." Then she winks and walks into the house.

"Don't mind Laura, she's just messing with you," Derek says.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Laura Hale. The last time he saw her she was cut in half, eyes filled with cataracts and corpse rotting.

Holy shit, he's seen her dead boobs.

Stiles makes a note to _never mention that._

Ever.

He enters the house and Derek leads him into a large dining room. A long table takes up the majority of the space—it seats 22 people by the looks of it. Most of the bodies waiting to fill those seats are currently bustling about, setting up plates and placing giant bowls of food onto the table.

It's like fucking Hogwarts.

Derek directs him into a seat near the end, across from an empty chair. Everyone seems to gather at the same moment, filling up the table until Stiles feels a little claustrophobic.

He's never eaten dinner with so many people before.

It seems that Derek has escorted him into a seat two chairs down from the head of the table. Talia, of course, takes that spot. Her husband? takes the one directly to her right, and Laura sits herself down on Talia's left. Derek sits on Stiles' left, but the empty seat across from Stiles—the one next to Laura's—remains sans werewolf. There is, however, a werewolf sitting in the spot next to the empty chair. The person in it is glowering at Stiles while scooping out mashed potatoes from a bowl.

So, Stiles sticks his tongue out at her.

Crankywolf blinks and then sticks her tongue out, too.

Derek snorts next to him.

Everyone starts to load up their plates with meat—yep, that's deer, poor Bambi—potatoes, and vegetables. Stiles steals Derek's dinner roll from off of his plate. The guy just laughs quietly and gets himself another.

So fucking _nice._

Stiles is about to steal that roll, too, when the door to the kitchen opens, and another person walks in—another Hale walks in.

Stiles looks up unconsciously at the sound, but then he can't take his eyes away.

He can't look away because Peter Hale just arrived, brown leather jacket and shiny leather boots carrying him over to the chair opposite Stiles.

The young girl next to Peter launches herself into his arms yelling, "Uncle Peter! I missed you!"

Peter pauses in taking off his jacket, catching the girl and booping her nose.

"I missed you too, brat. I've also brought you a present. But it'll have to wait until after dinner."

She pretends to pout, but smiles into her lap once she sits back down. Peter strips off his jacket, lays it on the back of the chair, and then takes a seat.

"Welcome home, brother."

Peter looks over at Talia and grins sharply, "Thank you, dear sister."

And with that exchange, Talia takes a bite of her food. Then everyone else follows suit.

Stiles still hasn't taken his eyes off of Peter.

Peter _fucking_ Hale.

How did Stiles forget about Peter Hale? He puts it down to temporary time-traveling induced insanity.

He looks so fucking young. His eyes look so different—warm and affectionate when he had gazed down at his niece. His eyes, so blue without the crazed—

Yeah, Peter Hale's eyes, the ones that are now staring intently into Stiles' own.

Stiles is hit by a terrible realization. Oh, Thor above, Peter Hale.

Talia's _brother_. The guy who's going to look into his background. The papers he has aren't as _good_ as Peter is _paranoid_. Stiles groans internally.

But he still hasn't looked away from Peter. And Peter hasn't looked away from him.

Otis swoops in from out of _fucking nowhere_ and lands next to Stiles' plate. The commotion draws his gaze, breaking their connection.

It also causes Peter to look at the empty space where Otis is currently pecking at Stiles' green beans.

Peter _fucking_ Hale. Guy doesn't miss a thing.

"So how was your trip to Oregon, uncle Peter?" Laura asks, somehow completely oblivious to her uncle's focus on Stiles.

Talia isn't.

Peter pours himself a glass of red wine—Stiles is getting a "fava beans and a nice chianti" vibe—and glances at Laura.

"It went well. The man I was looking for is now resting quite uncomfortably in a Portland jail cell." He takes a sip of his wine.

"What is it that you do, exactly?"

And Stiles? Yeah, Stiles can never help himself when he's curious. He almost regrets asking when Peter's interested gaze focuses back on him. Before he can reply, though, Derek answers for him: "Oh, he's a private investigator. He works with my mom and her firm a lot, but sometimes he does other cases."

Peter shoots Derek a withering look, but Derek continues on, "Oh hey, that reminds me! One of my teacher's houses was robbed this week. Apparently, the guy never realized it until Friday, so the cops have no clue when it went down."

Stiles freezes.

Everyone stops eating and turns to look at Derek.

"Oh?" Derek's dad asks. "Which professor would that be?"

"Mr. Harris," Derek answers, "the chemistry teacher."

Stiles chokes on his roll.


	6. Dr Deaton or: The Evil in Complacency

It takes until dinner is winding down for Talia to finally address the elephant in the room, namely that Stiles the Complete Stranger is eating dinner with them, and, y'know, has also _moved in_. She did so with all of the grace and aplomb Stiles expected from an alpha werewolf.

The sound of scraping forks and knives began to dwindle down, and the idle dinner chatter began to fade.

Stiles was still catching looks from Peter, though.

It's during this lull that Talia stands up from the head of the table and says, "This is Stiles. He's going to be working and living with the pack," she motions towards Stiles' frozen form, a last bite of potatoes shoved hastily into his mouth. He waves awkwardly, mouth full of mash, at the twenty-odd werewolves who are currently staring at him. "If you have any questions, feel free to address them to me. Privately." And then she grabs her dirty dishes from the table and walks into the kitchen, leaving the conversation—forcefully announced statement?—almost as quickly as she started it.

 _Democracy in action._

Stiles swallows—let's be real, gulps—his mashed potatoes, and clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I'm Stiles. Like Tal—Alpha Hale said, you can ask her questions, but you can totally ask me, too!" Stiles chuckles nervously. "I'm super excited to be here, and, uh—yep."

Derek, the little asshole, coughs next to him, making the silence that follows his impromptu announcement even more embarrassing.

The only thing worse than Derek's stupid smile is the fact that Peter is also rocking a small smirk.

After waiting _just_ the right amount of time for Stiles to properly marinate in a pool of his own awkward, the rest of the pack decides to stand up from the table and pick up their own dishes, just like their alpha had just done.

Stiles sighs and ducks his head, only to feel a rough hand on his right shoulder.

Otis squawks as the hand punches through its feathered body.

Stiles looks up at the owner of the hand, a guy, maybe 30, who has a gnarly scar running down the side of his face and raised claw marks climbing up the length of his—rather impressive—forearm. He swipes his hand across Stiles' shoulder and then sniffs the air once. His eyebrows draw together, confused, and then sniffs again.

"Cal," the guy's deep voice states. And then he walks away.

Now that Cal is out of Stiles' line of sight, he can see that everyone else has sort of formed a line. Stiles spends the next five minutes being stroked—caressed? swiped? pet?—by the rest of the pack. They all introduce themselves—fuck that's a lot of names—and Stiles watches as each of them, at only the word of their alpha, accepts him into their family.

Christ.

 _This explains so much._

If Stiles wasn't so perturbed by the implications of what they're doing, he'd be touched at their blind acceptance.

Stiles notices that Peter is conveniently missing from the queue.

Peter Hale. There's a reason Stiles always felt (sort of) bad about setting him on fire—the guy's smart. Too fucking smart.

Stiles isn't looking forward to dealing with that.

After everyone gets done inducting Stiles into the pack, Stiles excuses himself outside. He'll say it again—Derek was right, it's suffocating with so many people around.

Stiles makes his way onto the back patio; the sun is beginning to set, and everything in sight is being bathed in a warm orange glow. He closes his eyes, feeling a slight breeze rustle the strings of his hoodie.

Man, he's gotta get that washed sometime soon.

He feels Otis land on the top of his head, but it doesn't bother him.

As long as the light is still touching his face, pushing the cold ache from his bones—an ache that's been there _so_ long—well, as long as the light remains, Stiles will remain standing, unfazed.

He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

 _Urgh! Holy shit._

Well, he'll remain unfazed right after he takes a shower.

* * *

Stiles just has three words: hot. running. water.

Fuck, his knots have knots—and the Hales have _crazy_ good water pressure. He's in heaven.

When Stiles gets out of the shower, snapping the curtain out of his way and managing _not_ to trip over the raised edge of the tub, he wraps a fluffy towel around his waist and walks over to the sink. Through the steam on the mirror, he takes a good look at himself—tries to see himself as the Hales have all day.

His bruises have faded, a strange yellow tint rather than the vibrant purple it was a week before. The gash in his lip is still scabby, but it doesn't crack when he smiles like it used to. His ribs, while still very tender, are no longer too visibly cringe-inducing. He pokes at his chest—shit!, yeah he's definitely looking into healing magic next—and then he turns around. Stiles cranes his head over his shoulder, looking into the mirror. He closes his eyes.

 _Crack! You feel that, boy?_

Yeah, he's looking better.

He is.

He's just not feeling all that great.

Stiles decidedly refuses to look back in the mirror while he brushes his teeth with his finger and some toothpaste he found in the left-hand drawer. He finishes, feeling clean for the first time since he arrived in the past.

He balls up his clothes from the floor, opening the door to the bathroom. Steam rushes out, and through the clearing of the fog, the silhouette of Peter Hale emerges.

Peter leans against the door frame, filling the space so that Stiles is unable to slide past him.

"I've talked to Talia," Peter begins—of course, Peter was the first to take Talia up on her offer of fielding questions—"I just wanted to come and introduce myself properly." He smiles slowly, "Peter Hale. It seems you and I will be working closely together for the duration of your," he clears his throat softly, " _visit_."

Then Peter takes a long look at Stiles and his towel, dragging his gaze slowly from the top of Stiles' fuzzy head to the tips of his toes—and all the way back up again. Peter leans forward, his face coming to rest inches from Stiles' own. The man's eyes go half-lidded, heavy and seductive. "If you ever need anything, I'll be happy to help you out."

If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd say that Peter's gaze is heated, that he's checking him out.

But, Stiles _does_ know better.

He can see the calculation behind Peter's eyes. He can see that his gaze isn't heated—it's cold and reptilian, a predator's unblinking stare. Stiles can see the strategy behind cornering Stiles in the bathroom. The place where he's naked, where he's the most vulnerable. He can see Peter's attempt to manipulate him. Peter probably took one look at his "I Heart CA" t-shirt and his hoodie and assumed that he's either some dudebro that would become uncomfortable at another man's sexual interest, or that Stiles is so young and impressionable that Peter could gain his trust through a little focused attention and affection. Stiles can see exactly what Peter's doing.

It doesn't, however, make him immune to the fact that Stiles is standing chest-to-naked chest with Peter Hale—that he can feel droplets of water rolling down his balls.

But Stiles—Stiles can never back down from a challenge. Especially a game of manipulative gay-chicken.

So Stiles presses even closer to Peter's face, taking his eyes away from Peter's—only to look down suggestively at the man's lips.

He blatantly licks his own, looking back up to see Peter's mouth part, ever so slightly. It's a tiny thing, but Stiles learned a while ago that it's usually the small things that give Peter away.

 _Too easy._

Stiles hardens his gaze but allows a triumphant grin to cross his face. "Is that the best you've got?"

Peter's gaze widens slightly as if to say, "What, who? Little ole me?"

Stiles' smile turns cruel, "Isn't it a little desperate for a middle-aged man to make a pass at an underage teenager? What are you, 40? A little crass, don't you think?"

Peter's jaw ticks.

God, Stiles loves hitting the soft spots. It's even sweeter knowing that this Peter, only 23 by Stiles' count, is equally as touchy about aging as the Peter he knew.

He takes a step forward, gaining ground—forcing Peter to retreat.

He leaves a silent Peter behind him as he strolls down the hallway. Stiles turns back, looking over his shoulder and calling out a parting, "I'll expect better from you next time, Peter."

Then he scrambles into Derek's room.

Derek, the lovable asshole, has already placed underwear and PJs on his bed. The guy is currently at his desk playing sudoku. _Sudoku._

Christ.

Stiles gets dressed quickly, shimmying up the small ladder and into bed—so fucking _soft_ —and finally, snuggling into his pillows.

He lets out a loud groan.

Derek glances up from his puzzle, "What did Peter say to you?"

Stiles rolls his head to the side, "You heard that?"

Derek fills in a few boxes excitedly. "Not until you were in the hall. Most of the private rooms are soundproofed."

"Huh," Stiles muses. "Your uncle tried to kiss me."

Derek drops his pencil, "He did _what?_ "

Stiles laughs at Derek's disgusted face. "What, you got a problem with that?"

Derek's eyes go wide, "What, wait—no! Not that, I mean, he's my _uncle_ and he's—he's _Peter!_ Did he, like, force—" Stiles waves his hands in the air, forcing Derek to shut up before he works himself into an outraged lather.

"I'm just messing with you, dude."

Derek's shoulders sag, and he clicks off the desk lamp. He walks over to the bunk— _bunk beds_ , Stiles still isn't over that—and looks at Stiles seriously.

Stiles feels the need to comfort him, "But for real, he just got in my face a little. It's no biggie, I handled it."

At that, Derek cocks his head curiously, "Not many people would say they handled anything well around Peter."

Stiles hums. That's probably not entirely inaccurate. "Well, don't worry about me. I can handle myself around Peter," Stiles looks up at the ceiling, "I've met worse. Trust me."

And Derek seems to believe him.

They spend the next few hours talking about Derek's freshman year at school and how Stiles thinks basketball is in the running to be crowned the most boring sport, only behind the likes of soccer and Ultimate Frisbee.

He can hear Derek splutter at that from the bottom bunk. "What about golf?" Derek argues, "Or _bowling?_ Those are way worse than basketball!"

Stiles hangs himself upside down over the side of the bed, "For one, golf and bowling are _not_ sports. Any game that old dudes can play while holding a beer or a cigar in one hand is definitely not a sport—it's a leisure activity. And two," he pauses for dramatic effect, "it wouldn't matter even if they were sports, basketball would still suck just as much."

That gets him a pillow to the face.

The twinge in his ribs from hanging upside down is worth the uncontrollable laughter that he gets out of Derek.

Silence stretches between the two boys.

"Stiles?"

He yawns, "Yeah, Derek?"

"You know, if you really did want to kiss Peter, I wouldn't be mad or anything."

Stiles' eyes shoot wide open. "What?"

"It's just, humans are complicated and weird about sexuality. Wolves are pretty simple—whatever works," Derek pauses, "I just wanted you to know that if you did, you know, want _that_ ,I wouldn't judge you because he's a guy."

Stiles swallows. "I was in love with the same girl for about ten years. I get pretty focused on the mind; the rest is usually just window dressing." He takes a breath. "I guess I'm a pretty simple guy, too."

Silence.

Then Derek, "But, just so we're clear: I would totally judge you because he's _Peter._ "

That gets Derek two pillows to the face.

* * *

Stiles is woken up, not by Otis pecking at his chest, but by Crankywolf poking his forehead. When he opens his eyes, smacking his lips together sleepily, she grumps at him, "Mom said to wake you up. You have to go with her somewhere in a few minutes." Then she rips the covers off of Derek and runs out of the room.

Derek startles, grumbling as he searches the floor blindly with his hand. Stiles watches as the guy pulls the comforter all the way up and over his head, instantly going right back to sleep.

Stiles slithers out of his bed and walks over to the nightstand, lifting the alarm clock.

 _7:04 AM_

Fucking werewolves.

He walks, zombielike, to the bathroom.

He emerges, equally as dead to the world. Oh yes, Stiles has perfected the blind bathroom break.

He makes it back to Derek's room and rifles through the dude's drawers, looking for something that would fit him.

He misses his flannels.

He's just taking out some socks when Otis flies out from under Derek's boxers. Stiles yells, stumbling backward and falling on his ass. Otis circles the room until it perches on Stiles' pillow.

"Caw, caw, caw!"

Stiles doesn't need to be a bird to understand. He can practically _feel_ Otis chortling at him.

Derek, for his part, hasn't even moved. Stiles gets dressed and grabs his bag. He gives Derek one last glance.

 _Sleep well, Sourwolf._

Stiles motions to his shoulder and looks at Otis expectantly. "Well? Are you coming or what?"

"Caw!"

Stiles and Otis make it downstairs to find Talia, her husband—Mark?—Cal, and Peter all waiting near the front door. They're huddled together, mumbling amongst themselves. They all look up as he steps onto the first-floor landing.

Peter stares at his bag.

Stiles yawns, "So, where are we going?"

Talia smiles up at him, "Good morning, Stiles. We're heading out to visit a friend." She glances over at Cal.

Mark pipes up, eyeing his wife, and asks, "Would you like something to eat for breakfast before we go?"

But Stiles is already walking past them towards the door. He rummages through his bag and holds up a granola bar triumphantly. "Nope. Got breakfast right here." He looks back at them, "You guys ready?"

They all stare at him, bemused.

"I'll drive," Cal grunts. And then two minutes later they hit the road.

Stiles is fiddling with buttons, alone and in the third row of the Escalade SUV—lord, what a douchey car—when he asks again, "So, are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

Mark looks over his shoulder from the second row and says, "We're going to introduce you to the magical practitioner we've already been working with." He pauses. Stiles can see Cal's eyes on him in the driver's rearview mirror. Mark continues, "You said some pretty, well, some pretty damning things to my wife. We're all curious as to what the truth of the matter is."

Stiles snorts. Loudly.

"If you're looking for the truth, I wouldn't be so sure Deaton is your best bet." He looks out of the window. He can sense everyone's heads whip around at his statement.

"You know about Deaton?" Talia demands.

Stiles looks back, directly into Peter's penetrating gaze and says, "I know a lot of things."

Peter hums. "We're starting to get that."

The rest of the ride is driven in silence.

* * *

Stiles can't help but hate the sight of Beacon Hills' veterinary clinic. He's never been inside that place without walking out completely and utterly frustrated.

 _Fucking Deaton._

Talia and her betas escort Stiles into the building, Peter walking alongside him. Talia doesn't even bother to knock, she just walks into the back room, past a counter that Stiles swears is warded.

Specialty runes. Dope.

They all walk back into the clinic, reaching the surgery. Dr. Deaton is standing at a table filling a few baggies with herbs. He looks up from his work and smiles at Talia. When he looks at Stiles, his smile fades.

Deaton rips off his gloves and walks right up to Stiles. He can sense Peter inch gradually in front of his body.

Interesting.

"Do I know you?" Deaton asks.

Stiles smirks. "Not yet." God, talk about inside jokes.

Deaton fixes him with a searching gaze, "Your energy—it's so familiar. And your aura, it's—I've never seen anything like it." He doesn't sound very happy about any of that. In fact, Deaton looks pretty perplexed.

Talia interrupts Deaton by stepping forward. "This young man, Stiles, has recently come to us seeking employment."

"Oh?" Deaton's eyebrows raise.

This is literally the most expressive Stiles has ever seen Deaton's face.

Talia hardens her stare at the doc, "He's looking to take your job. He says that you haven't been protecting us as well as you could be. _As you should be._ " A flash of red crosses her eyes.

Deaton looks back over at Stiles curiously, "What is it, exactly, that you are accusing me of?"

Stiles walks over to the other side of the table and slams his bag down. "Well, for starters, you haven't warded a single speck of dust on the Hale property. Why haven't you created a perimeter warning? A System of Signals? A Guardian Knot? Why haven't you educated the Hale pack on the other supernatural creatures that they might come into contact with? Why have you kept your identity a secret within the pack? _What about the nemeton?_ "

Yeah, Stiles is yelling now. "Why haven't you done any of that? Isn't that your job, _emissary?_ To inform and guide the pack so that they can navigate this dangerous fucking world? Well? _Isn't it?_ "

Deaton is absolutely gobsmacked. "You—I wouldn't expect someone of your age to understand the intricacy of my position. Furthermore, my particular form of practice is predicated upon the preservation of the balance. And, how exactly do you know anything about the nem—"

And, then, Stiles sees it. He sees the bamboozled expression on the doctor's face. He can hear, underneath the man's attempts to talk around Stiles'— _very legitimate—_ points, a tremor of insecurity. His magic, now amplified by the nemeton, can sense Deaton's power.

And Stiles? Stiles finally understands Dr. Deaton.

"You don't have the _ability_ do you?" Stiles says, incredulously. He throws his head back and laughs. "I could _never_ understand why you never— _holy shit, this explains so much!_ "

Deaton looks over at the werewolves, angry. "I don't know who this _kid_ is, but I can assure you, I've done everything within my power to protect your family." He huffs, indignant. "Now if you're through accusing me of these ridiculous lies," and then he turns to go.

Stiles grabs ahold of Deaton's arm and yanks him across the table until their noses are practically touching. Stiles bares his teeth, "Now listen here, _druid_ —yeah, I know exactly who and what you are—you and I both know that everything within your power, isn't powerful _enough_." Stiles tightens his grip on the man's wrist. "You aren't malicious and you aren't incompetent, are you? You're just _unable_ —not quite up to snuff with all of your plants and your balance, huh?"

He stares Deaton down. "But why? Why promise the Hales that they were safe under your guidance? Why not be honest?"

Talia and Cal are both growling, glowing eyes fixed upon Deaton.

Stiles can see sweat on Deaton's brow and regret in his eyes. He lets go of the doctor's arm.

"It was the prestige, wasn't it?" It's so clear now.

Fucking hindsight.

He knows he's right by the stiffening of the wolves' shoulders. Deaton's heart must've done something crazy. Stiles continues anyway, on a roll and unwilling to stop: "You were suddenly a part of one of the oldest bloodlines, one of the most prestigious packs in North America, and when you discovered that you couldn't protect their territory—their huge fucking territory—you just stayed silent, hoping that nobody would notice and that nothing bad would ever happen."

Stiles feels ill. He looks into Deaton's desperate eyes and whispers, "You're not a bad man. I just hope that you can live with the fact that you aren't a good one."

And then Stiles leaves the surgery, hurrying outside. Once he reaches the parking lot, Otis drops down from the building's awning.

"Caw?"

He's hyperventilating. Stiles is breathing too fast and his stomach is roiling.

Then he's puking right next to the Hales' douchey car.

 _Fucking Deaton._

When he looks up he sees Peter and Cal standing guard next to him. "Sorry about that."

Cal gives him an indecipherable look, "He made me want to vomit, too. Don't worry about it."

Peter's just looking at Stiles, an expression of respect and curiosity on his face. It's the first time Stiles has seen a genuine emotion on Peter's face. "I, personally, have never liked that man. Too cryptic."

And Stiles laughs, coughing and wheezing, because yeah, Peter—he feels exactly the same way.

"We're supposed to take you back to the house while my sister and Mark officially remove Deaton from the pack," Cal says.

Stiles nods, and they all climb back into the car. Peter sits next to Stiles in the second row.

Hand idly fiddling with the keys at the ignition, Cal meets Stiles' gaze, once again, in the rearview mirror. "Do you really have the power to do what Deaton can't?"

Stiles smiles tiredly, resting his head against the window. "Yeah," he says distractedly, "yeah, I think I do."

In the reflection of the window, he sees two pairs of electric blue eyes flash.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbles, "but first, I'm going to need a breakfast burrito and an iced mocha the size of my fucking face."

Peter chuckles.

Cal smirks, "Well, alright then."

And then the car roars to life.


	7. How to Win Friends & Influence People

The first time that Stiles actively tried to use magic—or, in his case, to butcher a spell aloud and focus so hard that his whole body started to shake—well, he set his curtains on fire.

The second time that Stiles tried to perform a ritual, he had actually done in-depth research using heavy, weathered tomes he'd discovered in various occult shops. By the end of the night, he was able to light candles with the power of his fucking mind and a snap of his fingers. It was awesome. And, even _more_ awesome, none of his furniture burst into flames.

Since then, Stiles has practiced magic so many times that he's lost count—he's performed so many experiments and rituals that he would have to go back and check his notes to remember them all.

Now, though, Stiles has been in the past for about a month and he's about to practice magic on himself for the first time.

His ribs—which take about two months to heal, he looked it up—are still giving him shit, and living with a bunch of rowdy werewolf children isn't exactly mellow; so, he's spent the past three weeks researching healing magic. Specifically, _everything anyone could ever need to know_ about healing magic.

Stiles first learned the mistake of underestimating magical energy withdrawal when he tried starting Roscoe with only a spell and a single clap of his hands. He slept for nineteen hours straight and had to eat three large meat-lovers pizzas to feel normal again. His dad had thought that he'd contracted a tapeworm.

Since then, Stiles doesn't like to start working with new magic until he knows everything that he can get his hands on about that particular field. Keeping it a secret from the pack—and his dad—was important because he wanted to be sure he could practice around them safely.

He still regrets that he didn't learn enough faster—that he didn't find a better magical solution. Stiles still feels his chest constrict whenever he thinks about how he lied to his dad until the very end. When he thinks about his aborted attempts at easing his father into the supernatural world "safely"—when he thinks about how fucking _pointless_ all of his lying was—when he thinks about that, Stiles doesn't come downstairs from Derek's room.

Right now, though, Stiles is currently sitting on the edge of the Hale property. He's sitting in the dirt, stripped down to his underwear and kind of self-conscious about it.

He's spent the last three weeks getting settled into the Hale pack. His confrontation with Deaton gave him a foot in the door, and Deaton's apparent confession to Talia and her husband after Stiles had peaced out of the clinic had gained him an actual modicum of trust. The other pack members no longer blindly accept him but are now looking at him as if he were an alien. A more _trustworthy_ alien, but an alien nonetheless.

After all, how could this strange boy know something they all didn't?

There are a limited number of humans in the pack—three—so Stiles just thinks that the strange looks are more to do with the fact that the Hales have become "those weirdoes that live in the woods" and aren't used to social interaction with people that they aren't related to. Sure, a lot of them have jobs, but Stiles hasn't seen anyone bring home an outsider in the three weeks that he's lived in the pack house.

And though the Hales have started to consider him as an actual person with a functioning human brain, one that has _great ideas_ —he might be embellishing but really, who's to say?—most of them still haven't gone out of their way to engage him in conversation about his reason for being there in the first place.

Magic.

He knocked on the Hale door with the express purpose of using his impressive and magically wiles to help protect them, but no one has asked him about how he actually plans _to do_ that. Talia hasn't asked him to do anything yet. She hasn't asked him how he knew all of that stuff about Deaton. Derek hasn't even asked to see the butterflies again, and Stiles freaking _knows_ that the kid is itching for another round of magical butterflies.

The pack has backed off of him, and he kind of gets it. Why want another magic-user when the first one was a lying ass-taxi? Most of the pack didn't know about Deaton, but the distress, anger, and doubt that Talia felt when Stiles revealed the truth to her has really settled into the pack bonds. Stiles can't even feel them—as he's said, he hasn't been invited to become the emissary yet—and he can still tell.

Discord in a pack is something he's used to.

So, he gets it. And, it's actually helping him catch his breath. Literally, in the case. Stiles is a firm believer in helping yourself before you try and help others—ugh, he still remembers the summer where he learned French to help Scott pass—and he's been living in pain for a while without seeking medical attention.

Sometimes it's hard to remember to look out for yourself when you constantly have to look out for the ones you love.

So now he's getting back to basics and helping himself so that he can effectively help the Hales. It'd suck to be a hypocrite, turning into a Deaton 2.0 and not being good at the job because he's still not quite himself.

So here Stiles sits—naked and in the woods—three weeks into living with the Hales. He's ready to fix himself, to put his body and his mind on the same page and get down to work.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets go of his cloaking spell. He must be free of other magical agents so that the medicinal magic can sense every part of his physical being. He starts to rub his hands together, Mr. Miyagi style. He can feel his hands grow warmer and his heart start to race.

That's the adrenaline. Fun fact: there's always a physical response to wielding magic.

At least healing magic doesn't give him boners. That would be awkward for him and any future patients.

Once he finishes the spell, he presses his hands against his chest, creating a tight compress. Stiles hisses in pain—yep, they were more broken than he realized—and he hears a sharp _snap!_ as his bones mend themselves together.

He howls, loud and broken, into the forest.

Stiles is so glad he sent Otis to scout the area. That fucking bird would be _reveling_ in his pathetic werewolfy sounds of distress.

He's just blinking away tears when he hears the snap of a twig. Stiles jumps up—oh sweet Dairy Queen, no discomfort!—and faces the noise.

It's Peter Hale, looking a bit winded and out of sorts.

Interesting.

"Are you alright?" Peter asks, putting up a mask of casual indifference. It's kind of lost its effect with the whole disheveled "I just ran from god-knows-where to see if you were okay" look he's rocking.

Doubly interesting.

He thinks that it's interesting because this is the first time since the Dr. Do Nothing incident that Peter has directly addressed Stiles verbally. Make no mistake, Peter is always around—always watching him and listening to him interact with other members of the pack. Even when Peter thinks Stiles doesn't know he's around, Stiles knows he's around.

For example, two days ago Stiles, Derek, and Laura were sitting in the living room watching an episode of _NCIS_ —god he hates that show, his dad watched every rerun ever (he can't wait for _Supernatural_ to become a thing)—and Peter was sitting off to the side, pretending to be invested in _Crime and Punishment._

They were sitting there, idly chatting during a commercial, when Stiles asked, "Hey, what are you guys planning on doing for your birthday?"

Derek looked at him, startled. "You know when my birthday is?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, "Infant, please. You know that I know everything about you. Including what you hide behind your bookshelf."

Derek's cheeks flamed bright red. Laura just looked intrigued. Peter went a little too still.

Laura glanced over at Stiles. "Well, do you have any suggestions?"

Stiles shrugged. "I have a few, but I didn't want to get in the way of whatever you guys usually do."

Derek's eyes had widened, excited at the "a few ideas" bit. "We usually go for a really long pack run and take down some large game together. Then we have cake. You know, the usual."

Stiles couldn't even try to censor the disgusted look on his face. "Yeah, the usual. I totally, um, kill animals on my birthday, too." He shuddered. "But if you like, I can work some Stiles mojo and make something really special for you."

Derek grinned wide, "Oh hell yeah! That sounds amazing!"

They went on talking about birthdays and what the pack likes to do and eat during special occasions—Laura making both Stiles and Derek giggle uncontrollably when she started imitating her mother giving a speech two Thanksgivings ago, completely wasted off of wolfsbane-infused red wine.

And the entire time, Peter didn't say a word. He just lurked outside of their conversation, observing how Stiles interacted with the others.

So, it's interesting that the first time in his three weeks of radio silence that Peter's first words to Stiles are to ask him if he's okay. While he's sitting in the forest. Naked.

Stiles scrambles up from the ground, "Yeah—I mean, yes. Of course, I'm alright. Why would you ask that?"

Peter takes a deep inhale and marches right up into Stiles' personal space. He looks slightly distraught. "You smell like pain—old pain." He starts circling Stiles like a vulture, seemingly trying to detect why Stiles smells like he's hurting. When he comes back, face-to-face with Stiles, Peter's eyes flash blue. "Who hurt you?" he growls.

Stiles, amused, huffs and takes a step away from the Growly McScowly werewolf. "It's nothing. I just had some bruises and abrasions," then Stiles drops his voice, mumbling, "and maybe a couple of cracked ribs."

Peter once again closes the gap between them, "Broken ribs? How did you get those? When? I would've smelled it on you before now."

Huh. Look at that, Peter Hale is concerned about lil ole him. "If you must know, for one: no, you wouldn't have—I've had a pretty awesome full-body cloaking spell on me the entire time I've been here," Stiles pauses, "Interesting. How does that affect you guys and your powerful sniffers? Have you been able to smell anything on me at all?"

Peter looks shocked.

Stiles continues, oblivious, "And two: I've been hurt since we met. I got them before I even introduced myself to your pack."

And Peter does the strangest thing—he reaches out, his eyes still carrying disbelief—and places his hand on Stiles' chest.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath at the soft touch. Peter adds his other hand, both dragging along Stiles' skin, across his stomach, and around his back until they're practically hugging.

It's the first time Peter has touched him, and Stiles' mind is completely blank.

"You smell like old pain," Peter murmurs, "but also relief." He sticks his nose into Stiles' neck and just _breathes._ "You're right though, what you smelled like before was nothing like this. It was so _nondescript._ It was driving me crazy." Peter tightens his hands on Stiles' back and then freezes. Gently, he begins to trace the healed scars on Stiles' back.

 _Crack! You feel that boy?_

Stiles shudders.

"Now you smell—" Peter inhales again, "well, you smell better."

Stiles rocks slightly in Peter's arms.

He has no contingency plan for this, for Peter's care and attention.

Peter finally releases his hold and steps back. He gives Stiles a genuinely curious look. "What did you do?"

Stiles' mind is still blank. Peter has touched him— _stroked_ him—with care? in his eyes and soft hands.

Peter is worried about Stiles.

And Stiles doesn't know quite what to file that under. Maybe "H" for "Huh?"

He searches Peter's gaze, looking to find the Peter he knew hidden in those electric pools of blue. He's thrown when he can't find him there.

 _This isn't the Peter he knows._

Stiles can see paranoia, cleverness, and cunning—but no malice, no unquenchable thirst for dominion over Beacon Hills. It makes Stiles realize something important. It makes Stiles relax.

 _The Peter he knows doesn't exist._

The reflexive need to snark rests on the tip of his tongue, but at that realization—the one burning with significance and setting his brain alight—Stiles swallows his sass and answers honestly instead, "I healed myself."

Peter cocks his head, the curiosity in his eyes weirdly catlike and intense. "Explain."

So, Stiles does: "Well, I don't know if you're aware, but humans don't have the bitchin' healing powers that you guys do, so healing is kind of physically draining and emotionally taxing. The broken ribs I had were the worst, both because of the break, but also because of my bones' constant motion due to, y'know," Stiles picks up his jeans from the forest floor and drags them up his hips, "my whole _needing to breathe_ thing." Stiles throws on his t-shirt. "So, I figured that before I really get down and dirty with all of the magic I'm going to set you guys up with, I should probably make sure that I'm both physically and spiritually ready to perform the rituals that I'm going to need to complete." He squishes his feet into his chucks and glances at Peter. "Magic is exhausting, if you didn't already know."

Peter hums. "I've read that, yes." There's a pause. "But it is nice to have the theory confirmed."

"You've never talked to Deaton about the realities of magic?" Stiles is baffled.

Peter chuckles and he gives Stiles a smirk. "Deaton was rather, shall we say, unhelpful? I detested the man, so it wasn't like I was thrilled to ask his opinion on much of anything."

It's Stiles' turn to prod curiously, "I would've thought that you would go and find other sources of information."

That makes Peter laugh out loud, heartily enough to scare a flock of blackbirds from the trees above them. "You say the most marvelous things, Stiles. If you must know," Peter's grin turns teasing, "and I'm quite sure that you _must_ , Talia was never keen on me learning much more than I already do about magic."

Stiles quirks his lips, "Afraid that you might become the first wolf-practitioner of the modern era, eh? Thought you'd get lost in the power?"

He gives one more bark of laughter, and then Peter's gaze turns blank. He reaches out, grabbing Stiles' wrist. He speaks softly, a rumble in Stiles' ear, "I know there are things that you're not telling us. I've looked into you and found that you're exactly who you say you are," Peter's claws emerge, " _Stiles Gajos_ , 17, a native of California. You have no criminal record and have been a registered member of the Boy Scouts of America for 8 years." Peter leans in closer. "But I've come to know when documents look _too_ clean, and I definitely know that you're no boy scout." He snorts, "I actually quite enjoyed that detail." His face turns blank once again. "But consider this me, letting you know that _I know_ you're lying—about what and why, I'm not entirely sure," Peter's eyes flash blue, " _yet._ "

Stiles' heart is in his throat.

"But also consider this me, letting you know that despite your horrible attempts at lying, I believe that you want to protect my family."

Wait—what?

Peter continues, "I've watched you." Stiles snorts. Peter smirks. "Yes, and I know you've seen me. But the beat of your heart now and your past actions have given you away, at least, a little—you care for my nephew." Peter pauses, as if tasting his next words on his palate, "I know that I alarm you, but you choose to provoke me anyway. I know that you understand my position in this pack, and that you seem to understand me quite well—so in truth, your willingness to stand by our pack, knowing _exactly_ what I would do to you if you were found a fraud is, frankly, mesmerizing."

Stiles is gobsmacked.

Peter's claws disappear, "You, Stiles, are without a doubt the most interesting person I've ever met—and despite all of your lies, you, for some unknown reason, care about my family. So, as long as you're here, I'm willing to let us become friends."

Stiles is hallucinating.

"Let me get this straight: you want to be my friend, even though you know I'm not telling you everything?" Stiles is fucking confused.

Peter smiles charmingly, "Quite right."

 _This isn't the Peter he knows._

 _The Peter he knows doesn't exist._

An unexpected sliver of excitement runs up Stiles' spine. Learning and adapting to this new Peter is bound to be inordinately fun.

Stiles lets out a breath. "Okay," he says, and then he sticks out his hand.

Peter grasps his palm and they shake, a fledgling seed of respect planted and beginning to grow between their interlocked fingertips.

"I know that I kind of shocked you guys with my Deaton reveal," Peter motions for Stiles to continue, "but I meant what I said about the importance of the emissary's job. There just shouldn't be any secrecy or vague bullshit within a pack. You guys should know how to protect yourselves—and whatever you can't do, you should be able to have a dialogue with your emissary so that you understand what _they_ can do."

If anything, Peter is starting to look excited.

"I haven't said anything to your sister, because, well, you guys needed time to get over a betrayal of trust. I get that. But, now that I'm better, I'm ready to begin my work." Stiles pauses. "Would you like to help me?"

Peter's eyes flash. "What?"

"You're the Left Hand, you need to know exactly what I'm doing on the defense front so that you can function at your best on the offense," Stiles swallows, "and, above all else, I know that you're the only one in the pack that would actually appreciate the sort of hands-on experience I'm offering."

Peter gives him another hearty laugh and a happy smile. He murmurs to himself, "One of these days you're going to tell me how you're able to say such things with uncanny accuracy and unshakeable confidence."

Stiles grins back, "Maybe—but, that day isn't today."

Peter just shakes his head ruefully, "The first thing you'll need to do is speak to my sister, and if she agrees, have her formally create a pack bond to induct you as our emissary."

At that, Stiles frowns. "Have you—told her, about me?"

Peter quirks an eyebrow, "Stiles, my sister, despite all of my claims, isn't actually an idiot. She could sense your desperation the moment you met. It doesn't take a werewolf to see that whatever you're running from is dark. Asking me was simply a formality; but yes, she knows that you're lying." Peter sighs, "She just doesn't think it's relevant like I do."

Stiles smirks.

"You were always the clever one, Peter Hale."

* * *

Stiles' meeting with Talia is rather anticlimactic. He sits down in her office and tells her about his plans for the Hale pack. He hands over stacks of printed notes detailing his knowledge of protective runes and rituals. He explains to her how he, if she so desires, would like to become an emissary that would educate and aid her pack—an emissary that would continue to learn and grow and be honest about his mistakes.

He makes sure to keep his cloaking spell down so that she can hear the truth in his erratically fast—but consistent—heartbeat.

Talia—fuck, _Alpha Hale_ —just smiles at him and asks him if he will agree to be the Hale pack emissary. He says yes, tilts his head to the side, watches her eyes flash a commanding red—and bodda bing, bodda boom—there's a fucking pack bond glowing brightly between him and Mrs. Hale. _His Alpha._ He can actually see the magic pulsating between them, golden and taut.

They end the meeting, not with a handshake, but with a tight hug.

Stiles could get used to this werewolf pack stuff.

He strolls out of the office to see another bond stretched between Peter and him—figures, Peter was waiting outside the meeting like a total creeper. The bond is different, glowing a brilliant blue, but no less powerful. And by the dazed look on CreePeter's face, he can feel its energy, too.

Stiles starts walking towards the garage, Peter falling in line next to him.

"Where are we going?" Peter asks.

"The grocery store," Stiles replies excitedly.

Peter's eyebrows raise, "Any particular reason?" But he's already grabbing a set of car keys off of a hook. They walk over to an Audi.

"You are aware that all of your cars are completely pretentious and exist on a higher plane of douchebaggery, right?"

Peter snorts in disdain, "Youth these days, they know nothing of taste."

Stiles just rolls his eyes and gets into the car. They take off down the driveway and onto the access road. "If you really want to know," Stiles begins, "I need a few things to kickstart my plan. I need a little help in, well, _restoring_ something."

Peter looks engrossed, "And what, pray tell, are you restoring?"

"A nemeton."

Peter swerves off the road, screeching to a halt in the dirt. He turns his focus to Stiles, "What nemeton?"

Stiles chortles, "Oh, you didn't know? The one practically dead and struggling to grow in your backyard."

Peter takes a few audible breaths. "Nemetons are supposed to have caretakers, are they not?"

"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! You are correct, but by the looks of it, it hasn't had a caretaker in quite some time. I mean, the whole "chopped down" thing is quite the clue." Stiles is trying very hard not to laugh at Peter's horrified expression.

"Chopped—and we didn't—" a pause and then, "let's just go to the grocery store before I'm tempted to renege on our friendship."

Stiles giggles as they get back onto the road.

He lolls his head against his seat and glances over at Peter, humming thoughtfully. "So, Peter," he starts.

"Yes, Stiles?"

"What do you know about milk and honey?"

* * *

They reach Beacon Hills' strip mall—y'know, the same one in _every_ small town in America—and Stiles pulls Peter aside once they near the entrance to the awning-covered walkway.

"Okay, I need you to go into Home Depot and grab, like, 10 birdhouses and a bunch of those poles you can attach them to."

Peter just blinks once and then walks into the hardware store without a backward glance.

Stiles continues on towards the grocery store. He's lost in his head, sorting through his plan and the spells he needs to prepare when he accidentally runs into a person. The person—man, definitely a guy—grunts and grabs onto Stiles' shoulders, steadying them both.

Stiles finds himself unable to look up into the man's face, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

The man, who, upon contact, looked ready to throttle him, now seems a bit—sheepish?

Stiles forces a smile, "I do this sort of thing a lot, so it's pretty expected that I take full blame in every collision."

The guy laughs, raspy as if from disuse. "You get into a lot of those, do you?"

Stiles nods quickly, "Yep, so allow me to open the door for you." And then he opens the door with Vanna White flair.

The guy chuckles again and walks inside with a look back at Stiles and a muttered, "Thanks."

They take separate paths to different aisles.

When Stiles reaches the preserves and canned goods aisle, he sinks down onto the floor and puts his head in between his legs.

He'd know those combat boots, those eyes, that voice, those white, _white_ teeth anywhere.

Stiles just ran into Chris motherfucking Argent, and now he's having a panic attack surrounded by jellies and jams.

He waits out his attack—a rather short one, all things considered—and then he goes and grabs a shopping cart, returns to the aisle, and throws a bunch of jars of honey into it.

 _He isn't his father._

The thought is comforting, it really is, but what isn't is the knowledge that Chris has never been a very predictable variable—and that sets Stiles' teeth on edge.

Chris never seemed to think much of Stiles—he was even a part of the "slam Stiles into walls" club. God, Chris and Derek could've had _the best_ matching t-shirts.

Stiles rides his cart down the store towards the dairy section.

 _He isn't his father._

Stiles is about to make it to the milk when he spots Chris pondering two boxes of cereal.

Stiles can't resist.

He rolls up next to Chris and says, "Please tell me you aren't actually thinking of buying either of those."

The guy whips his head around, looking at Stiles intensely, "And what would you do if I told you I was?"

Stiles clucks his tongue, "I'd say you're probably going to kill your taste buds with sheer _boredom._ All of that bran, and those _oats?_ Are you trying to put yourself in an early taste-grave?"

Chris' lips twitch. "What would you suggest I buy?"

Stiles picks up a trusty box of Cap'n Crunch and wiggles it in his face. "These are a flavor sensation, sure to promote bone health and cure cancer."

Chris rolls his eyes. Stiles shrugs, "Okay, maybe not the cancer thing, but it at least tastes better than that cardboard you're holding."

He huffs at Stiles' innocent expression and grabs the box from his hands. "Fine," then he throws it in his cart.

Stiles nods, happy that things have gone his way, and starts to leave. Chris grabs his arm—gently, can you believe that?—before he can turn to go.

"Can I get a name from my cereal savior?"

 _He isn't his father._

Stiles breathes deeply. "Stiles."

Argent holds out his hand, "Chris."

Stiles smiles hesitantly, "It's good to meet you, Chris."

And, fucking weirdly enough, it is.


	8. There's No I in Nemeton

Stiles stands against the Audi, lost in thought. Chris Argent, to his knowledge, was always the best of a bad—he's talking _bad—_ bunch. And that says a lot, considering he shot his best friend with a crossbow for no good reason (like, is there any good reason to shoot someone with a crossbow?).

Stiles tries to put himself in Chris' shoes. He's married—from what Stiles has already gathered, it was some sort of quickly arranged marriage?—to Victoria already. From the records in City Hall, they were married in 1994, and Allison was born just 10 months later.

Yeesh. Stiles definitely hadn't thought that their marriage was some sort of love match, after all, Victoria Argent is one stone-cold bitch. Stiles speculates she probably doesn't know how to love. Thinking about her just makes Stiles' hands start to sweat.

Yeah, he wasn't really sorry to hear she'd killed herself.

Bitch was a certifiable zealot.

But now, as he stands next to a cart filled with six gallons of 2% and thinks about Chris' life, Stiles is more shocked that he didn't end up a complete whackadoo, y'know, _exactly like his entire family_. It would be hard for anyone to be surrounded by all of that hate and not be completely indoctrinated.

It only took Allison some hurt feelings for Kate to talk her into shooting people. It only took some misinformation for Allison to start torturing her classmates.

Jesus Christ.

It really is a mystery how Chris wound up the sort-of not evil one.

Stiles is dragged from his thoughts by Peter's arrival. The guy's got ten birdhouses—but rather than regular ones, he's picked out really nice two-story ones that look like old-timey plantation mansions.

Stiles raises his eyebrows and gives Peter's cart a pained look. "Really?"

Peter sticks his nose in the air, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

When they get onto Main St. Peter asks, "Are you going to tell me what has your chemosignals smelling acidic?"

Stiles just shrugs.

Peter gives him the side-eye and says casually, "You know, it's been said that I am a fine digger of graves."

Stiles snorts.

The right side of Peter's mouth turns up, "So if you ever needed me to get rid of whatever's troubling you… _that_ particular skill wouldn't be a hurdle."

And then Stiles is laughing, uproariously and without censor. Peter looks pretty pleased with himself.

Stiles' chuckles slowly fade. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Be sure that you do."

* * *

"Why am I the one carrying all of the milk, again?"

Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter, who's carrying everything but the bag filled with honey. "Hmmm. What did you just say to me, _werewolf?_ "

Peter pouts.

Huffing, Stiles says, "Don't throw a fit, you big baby. We're almost there."

"And where exactly," Peter muses, "are we going?"

Stiles picks up his pace, the woods around them starting to come alive as the light from the day begins to fade. "Well, remember when I said the nemeton was basically growing in your backyard?"

"Yes, and I still can't believe my family didn't care for it—or even know of its _existence_. We're supposed to be one of the policing agents of the supernatural world in this area and I just," Peter stops walking, "I just thought we were better than we are proving to be. I thought that _I_ was better."

At that, Stiles marches over to Peter and pats his shoulder, "It's not your fault, Peter. In fact, it isn't even your family's fault." He smiles. "So get over yourself." And then he continues on towards the clearing. He can hear the steady beat of wings overhead.

"What do you mean—Stiles!" Peter starts jogging—lord, the visual of him running with jugs of milk and birdhouses is incredible—"Stiles, what did…" and Peter slowly trails off as they reach their destination.

The nemeton is sitting calmly in the center of the clearing. The forest seems to fall completely silent—still in a way that is somehow both peaceful and unnerving.

Stiles walks over to the stump and looks over at Peter, who's been staring speculatively at the tree ever since he quieted.

Stiles' voice is loud in the silence, "You were saying something?"

Peter clears his throat. "Right," he takes his eyes away from the nemeton, "what did you mean by 'it wasn't even your family's fault'?"

"Well," Stiles starts taking out the jars of honey from his plastic sack, "I've done a lot of research on nemetons, and I asked myself the same question that you did. Why _wasn't_ your family taking care of it? How did its presence become secreted away?" Stiles hums softly. "So once I asked myself that, I kind of fell into a different research vein, and I got sucked into the history of Beacon Hills itself. Did you know that the county archive keeps records of even _before_ the town was originally founded? I freaking _love_ that place, I mean—"

"Stiles."

"Oh! Right, so I was looking into the history of the town, specifically all of the land you guys own and the preserve, y'know, where the nemeton is. And I traced back the land ownership for as far as it went on paper. Yeah, you Hales have owned this land for about 210 years—how fucking awesome is that? Anyway, because you Hales, as you said, are meant to function as sort of guardians of the land and caretakers of the nemeton, I was super angry at your ancestors for letting all of this happen, I mean, who just walks away from a powerful and _potentially dangerous_ tree."

Stiles smiles wide, "And that's how I found my answer." Stiles takes the birdhouses and poles from Peter and starts ripping off price tags and setting them up in a circle around, and a few yards away from, the nemeton.

Peter follows him, waiting for Stiles to continue.

As he sets up a birdhouse, Stiles goes on, "I asked myself, _Stiles, what kind of people would do that?_ I mean, certainly not responsible ones who were _already protecting the land_. So I dug further and discovered something amazing—kind of horrible actually—but stupidly important, all things considered."

"And what was that?" Peter asks—he's practically vibrating with curiosity.

Stiles huffs, "Like I'm just going to tell you? No. Not how this," he motions between Peter and him, "dynamic works. Like, _at all_."

Peter rolls his eyes, "Seriously? How mature."

Stiles smirks, "I didn't say I wouldn't help you."

He finishes setting up the last birdhouse and takes a step back, admiring his work. Then he turns to Peter and asks, "So, we agree that it's bizarre that nobody in your family knows about the nemeton—that it hasn't been a part of the 'guardian duties' you guys undertake?"

"Correct."

Stiles continues, "And it's weird because you guys have been on this land for _over_ _200 years_ and you couldn't find a single document detailing this _ancient tree's_ existence."

Peter relaxes his shoulders. "Yes."

Stiles gives Peter a sharp glance, "So you'd agree that the tree is, in fact, quite old?"

He walks over to the stump and rests clawed hands upon the bark. Tracing over the rings, Peter replies, "It looks like it's been here for at least a millennia."

"It's true," Peter looks up at Stiles, "it's power is just _heavy_ in a way that only ancient magics are."

"Interesting," Peter replies, "but, I'm still not quite understanding your epiphany."

Stiles lays his hands on Peter's shoulders and looks him square in the eyes, "Peter, it's like this: who watched over the land—the nemeton—before the Hales?"

Peter's eyes widen.

"Who took care of this tree—for _almost one thousand years—_ before you guys showed up?" Stiles is grinning like a lunatic.

Peter swallows. "Oh my god."

Stiles is shaking Peter's shoulders. "The answer to that question is literally in _any U.S. history textbook._ "

"Native Americans," Peter whispers, awed.

Stiles is now jumping up and down, "Yes! Native freaking Americans! And, once I realized that, I had a whole other line of inquiry—did indigenous tribes have their own magics? their own werewolves?—so I followed the lead to one of my message boards and just freaking _asked._ "

Peter is smiling now, too.

"I learned that they had their own everything—like, duh!—but more specifically, that the land you guys own used to belong to two different tribes, the Nisenan and the Konkow. They were both peaceful tribes who had special shapeshifting groups that looked after the nemeton—they literally passed down that honor for _centuries._ "

Peter's smile fades, "There's an 'until,' isn't there?"

Stiles' excitement dims, too. "Well, yeah. Native Americans, as you know, were systematically wiped out and put into, well, concentration camps." Stiles pauses. "But—"

"But?"

Stiles lets go of Peter's shoulders, "But, in this _one_ particular instance, it wasn't _just_ the colonists that killed the Natives, or at least, these specific guardian shifters."

Peter raises his eyebrows in disbelief, "Really?"

"Yeah, and I know it sounds weird, but something else besides horrible white people killed them."

Peter still looks skeptical, "Then what did?"

Completely serious, Stiles looks into Peter's eyes and announces firmly, "Fairies."

"Fairies?"

Stiles nods once and answers back calmly, "Fucking fairies, man."

* * *

Stiles is unscrewing the lids off of the honey jars when Peter finally throws his hands into the air and declares, "Just because you like getting in the last word, doesn't mean you can just finish the story with 'fucking fairies, man'—that's just deliberately cruel."

Stiles smirks and starts putting each jar of honey into each birdhouse. "Well, from what I've gathered, those guardians lived in relative peace until about 300 years ago; that's when the local factions of Fae kind of swooped in and said 'we're gonna be taking over from here on out'—y'know, like complete twats."

Peter just nods at Stiles' _spot-on_ description of the Fae.

"You see, nemetons are really fucking powerful, and both factions of the Fae constantly try to outmaneuver the other by claiming and wielding powerful magics—and boy do nemetons fit that description. In fact, nemetons are such powerful epicenters that I've often read that they act as _literal beacons_ to supernatural creatures—ones that could potentially connect to them."

Peter chimes in, "Yes, I've read that they act as a sort of magical stockpile, is that true?"

Stiles nods and says, "Exactly right. Nemetons are just these fucking massive receptacles of power inherent in the earth, so they draw creatures in so that one might connect to its power and distribute it out across the land, y'know—"

Peter smirks, "To restore the balance of energies."

Snorting, Stiles answers, "Yeah, restoring the balance. But with Fae, they wouldn't want to do that—they'd want to bring all of that power over into their own dimension, which is like, a huge no-no."

Stiles hears Otis cawing judgily at the mere mention. "So, these local fairies were probably poking around this nemeton 300 years ago, thinking that the Natives weren't strong enough to really stop them." Stiles pauses, "But, they were. Those shifters, from the accounts of those who remember," Stiles glances pointedly up at Otis, "fucking killed _all of them._ They got rid of the threat and drove the fairies from this entire area." Stiles shakes his head in awe. "It must've been so dope." Then a thunderous look crosses his face, "But you know what Fae are like—far-reaching and petty as shit. Upon hearing what happened here, the higher-ups in each Fae clan decided that the best vengeance was to destroy both the guardians and the tree." Stiles starts uncapping the milk jugs and placing them next to the stump. "They're so stupid—their entire idea was contrived from a bad Lifetime movie: if we can't have it—"

"Then nobody can," Peter finishes.

Nodding sadly, "Yeah, so apparently the next time another tribe member came across the area everything was wrecked and every single guardian was just, poof!" Stiles snaps his fingers, "gone. The nemeton was destroyed." He pauses, running his hand over the bark. "Apparently, it refused to connect with the Fae after all of that."

Peter waits a moment and then says, "Stiles, that's incredible. I just—thank you for telling me all of that. It's important to know the history."

He smiles softly, "Yeah, it really is. The nemeton has just _been here,_ ruined and unattended for three centuries—slowly rotting away at its core. I—" he feels the power of the nemeton inside him, "there's something wrong with it, Peter. I can feel it. It's so…dark—just so fucking dark. Something is making it worse, and we need to put it back to rights before it can start restoring any semblance of balance."

Stiles turns to Peter, "So, will you help me?"

Peter offers him an amused smile, "Will I help you restore this wonderfully powerful and historically significant tree, one—that if left untended—would probably start causing untold horrors in my own backyard?" Peter touches his shoulder. "Yeah, I believe that requires just a bit of my attention."

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and signals for Otis to come land on his shoulder. Peter watches his movements with unabashed curiosity. "It's good to hear you say that, Peter." Otis lands on his head.

That fucking bird.

"It's good to hear you say that," Stiles continues, "because I need to tell you just one more thing." He looks pointedly at the vast amounts of milk and honey, all formed in a circle around them and the nemeton.

 _Fucking fairies, man._

Then Peter gets it. His shoulders droop minutely, "We're summoning fairies here, aren't we Stiles?"

But Stiles is already chanting.


	9. Feet Don't Fae-l Me Now

When Stiles is done chanting in Gaelic—okay, _butchered_ Gaelic—he looks over at Peter, who has begun sharpening his claws against the trunk of the nemeton.

Peter catches his glance and returns it, unamused. "So what do we do now?"

Stiles shrugs and replies, "We wait. Those fickle fucks are notoriously late. They always answer the call, but they like to take their time in doing so." Stile sits down next to Peter on the stump. "I think it's supposed to be a power move—but I think it's pretty telling."

"Oh?"

He nods, "Yeah, the longer they wait to show up, the more they're interested in coming. They wait to make the summoner tired and anxious—pliable for manipulation. At least that's the way I inferred it from all of the lore I read." Stiles scratches his cheek and starts fiddling with the cell phone Talia gave him—hint: it fucking _flips_. "I was pretty keyed up on Adderall at the time so I dunno how accurate that actually is."

Peter laughs scathingly. "Well, we're about to find out."

* * *

It's two hours later when Cal and Laura show up in the clearing. Peter hears them first, head whipping up and staring in their direction. Both Stiles and Peter spot them five minutes later, trudging through the woods and carrying wicker baskets.

Cal is the first one to reach them, face blank but eyes twinkling.

Peter stares down his older brother and his niece before asking, "What are you two doing here?"

"I got Stiles' texts," Cal rumbles. "He sent me some coordinates and said—wait, hold on." He takes out his phone and reads:

 _lol whaddap Calvinnn_

 _tell Talia plan f is a go & if not back n 2 hrs snd hlp_

 _p.s. also snacks :)_

When he glances back up from his phone, he looks Stiles dead in the eye and says, "My name isn't Calvin, by the way." Then he turns his back and starts digging through a basket.

Laura looks like she's trying not to laugh at Stiles' crestfallen expression, "Yeah, so mom sent us out here to wait with you guys and act as backup."

Peter mulls it over. "The Second, the heir apparent, the Left Hand, and the emissary? Not a bad group to represent the Hale pack."

Stiles is still reeling from the "not-Calvin" reveal. Shit, now he can't use any of those _Calvin and Hobbes_ jokes he's come up with.

Peter smacks him in the chest with a turkey sub. "Stop your sulking, it's undignified."

"Fine."

And then he and a group of werewolves start having a picnic atop a mystical tree stump, all while waiting for a group of murderous fairies to show up.

God, what is his life?

* * *

It takes another two hours for the fairies to arrive.

By that time, Stiles had already conjured up his heated dome, only this time he spelled it for the _entire clearing._ It lit up the forest in a warm glow, twinkling above them as a sort of fusion between the day and the night skies. Peter, Cal, and Laura all watched him in awed silence as he cast the charm now keeping them all warm and able to see.

Well, werewolves have fucking night-vision—but it's the thought that counts.

It's the first time any of them besides Derek have actually witnessed Stiles use magic, and by the looks on their faces, it's probably the first time they've seen _anyone_ use magic.

Fucking Deaton.

Peter has just started in on interrogating Stiles about the thermodynamics at play in such a shield—Cal's body turned away, but silently paying attention—when the fairies are suddenly hovering next to their impromptu picnic.

The werewolves, not used to being snuck up on, immediately stiffen—all three jumping up and surrounding Stiles protectively.

Stiles, quite used to having the shit scared out of him, remains calmly seated atop the nemeton. He smirks to himself behind his wall of werewolves, waiting from the supernatural dick-measuring contest to begin.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"Well, well, well—what do we have here?" a tinny voice questions, tone darkly amused. "It seems we have a few overgrown pups whose claws need to be clipped."

A second voice—equally as tinny, but with a deeper register—chimes in with, "I would not mind going a few rounds with the scarred one. He looks to have survived many battles. Those are always much more fun to break."

To the Hales' credit, none of them seem to rise to the fairies' bait. Stiles can't hear any growling, but he knows that those taunts have sparked the wolves' protective instincts. Cal's posture is tall and imposing, back relaxed in a way that invites an attack. Peter's stance has shifted so that he's resting on the balls of his feet. Laura is crouching slightly, her center of gravity low and her body ready to pounce.

God these guys are cool.

Cal breaks the increasingly hostile silence, "We didn't summon you for a fight."

The first tinny voice sneers, "You would be a fool if you had."

The second voice adds, "I have changed my mind, the one with the long hair has an aura of superior power. I shall defeat that one first."

Stiles, both entertained and irritated at the Faes' arrogance, snorts. All parties fall silent at the sound. "I'm not sure why I expected more dignity in a race with brains the size of peas, but I guess that was my mistake." He stands up from the nemeton and forces himself through the space between Peter and Cal. Stiles gets his first good look at the Fae envoy. There are three of them flitting around about six feet in front of where he's standing. Two have skin as pale as the moon; the other's skin is deep purple—and all are ethereal. It's hard to gauge, but one of the pale Fae and the purple one appear to be male—so, probably the voices Stiles heard before. He fixes his judgmental gaze on the fairy in the middle, the one that has yet to speak. "Yeah, my mistake. But, let us know when you're done with your obnoxious posturing. We'll wait."

All three Fae focus their intensity on Stiles. The two males' expressions shutter at Stiles' words, but the corners of the female's mouth slowly start to climb her elegant face. Then, a tinkling fills the air—a Fae's laugh. The female fairy is laughing, eyes never blinking away from Stiles. She appears, in an instant, directly in front of his face. Stiles meets her scrutiny calmly. She backs off a bit, turning away as if to appear disinterested.

Stiles has seen better acting in a second-grade rendition of _The Crucible_ —yeah, don't even get him started on why teachers thought 7-year-olds and symbolic McCarthyism was a good mix like _what the actual fuck_ —but anyway, these fairies must still be under the impression that humans still haven't evolved to understand the nuance of overacting.

 _Fucking fairies, man._

The silent one finally addresses him, "You must be our mysterious summoner." She flits around the space, lingering near one of the birdhouses before flying back over to Stiles. "There are quite _exquisite_ offerings you have laid out. Not a fight, indeed." She attempts to fly over onto the nemeton, but Otis swoops down and bats her away with its wing. Otis caws triumphantly, and the whole scene is so reminiscent of swatting away a pesky fly that it's hard for Stiles not to laugh out loud.

The spinning fairy shrieks in outrage, whirling around furiously in an attempt to find the culprit.

Otis just continues to caw at her mockingly. Stiles finds it much more endearing when it's not being directed at him.

Stiles walks back over to the nemeton, motioning for the Hales to flank him. "I wouldn't try that again if I were you," he sits back down on the tree. "It really doesn't like you."

All three Fae still.

Stiles huffs, "You think we don't know all about your history with this place? That we don't know about what you've done?" He pins the leader with a sharp smile. "The earth never forgets—you should know this by now."

The female fairy has abandoned looking indifferent. All edges of her features seem to sharpen, to become more alien than angelic. "You seem to know so much about our kind for one so young. Might you gift us with your name, baby druid, to even the playing field?"

Stiles doesn't bat an eyelash, "Stiles."

The Fae's expression turns searching, eyes cast distantly—trying to find the truth, the power, in his name.

It's too bad for these fairies that Stiles knows to play this particular game.

"Looking to wield the power of my true name over me?" Stiles asks, bored. He can see the female fairy's eyes refocus instantly. She's now vibrating with anger. "Good luck with that," Stiles continues. "I find it quite interesting that you preach about the transparency of knowledge but come here with the intent to manipulate and maim. Oh, and when I say interesting, I mean it's a crock of hypocritical bullshit." He can hear Peter struggling not to laugh. Stiles tuts. "You also appear here, under glamours. If you have any intention of listening to what I have to offer, you'll reveal yourselves to us." He pauses, smiling maliciously. "Or you can leave. I'll even be kind and give you a running—sorry, my bad—a _flying_ head start."

The voice belonging to the purple-skinned Fae fills the air—a booming bark of laughter that grows drastically as he appears in front of the Hales and Stiles, seven feet tall and equipped with two large battle axes. The Fae's head is thrown back, a shock of brilliant white hair swaying down his spine. "I have not heard such things from a mortal in all my years of existence. I will proudly represent my court in this summons, one free of trickery." The purple giant lifts his head and winks at Stiles, bowing lowly while keeping a solid grip on both axes—impressive, Christ those are big. "You may call me Rhys." Then he steps away from the other two fairies.

A flash of white light erupts, and then the remaining Fae are, too, standing before the Hales. The woman is around six feet and the man tops out around the same height. Both are attempting to hide murderous expressions.

They aren't very good at it.

The leader looks down her nose at the werewolves and states, "You may call me Morgan."

Her henchman—henchfairy?—sneers, "You may call me nothing."

Peter smirks, "A very wise choice your parents made, naming you that."

The fairy hisses, unsheathing a lengthy sword from his belt.

Stiles snarls, "Are you finished flashing your fairy dicks? Your melodrama and threats of mindless violence are becoming tedious."

Rhys belly-laughs once more. "You, Stiles the druid, are a wordsmith without equal. Unseelie are of course the scourge of our realm. If you grow tired of their antics, perhaps I can negotiate on behalf of my own court, and we can debone these swine together as a sign of good faith?"

Stiles' eyebrows raise at the visual— _debone?,_ yikes.

Though alarming to Stiles, Rhys' words simply cause the other two fairies to stop their posturing.

Morgan straightens her shoulders and demands, "Speak, druid."

 _Still not a druid you stupid flying fucks._

Stiles steps closer to the Fae, Peter and Cal moving in tandem behind his back, acting as shadows. "As I said before—I just, I have to wonder: do any of you recognize the clearing you're standing in?"

The grumpy fairy snarls, "We have a far better understanding of this land than you, child."

Otis caws warningly at Grumpy, and Stiles has to clench his jaw shut so that he doesn't cackle into the homicidal Fae's face. "Well, if any part of that statement is true, then you must know that what you destroyed centuries ago—or should I say _attempted to destroy_ —is still here, trying to regrow." Stiles pins unforgiving eyes on the Fae. "You say that you remember—well, I've got news for you," he pauses and runs a hand over the stump, "it remembers you as well."

Stiles fixes his gaze on the Fae, eyes flashing a brilliant amber.

Otis screeches mightily, winds bursting forth from the beat of its wings.

Unbreakable roots shoot out from the ground, snaking around each of the Fae—the vines wrap tightly, so tightly, around each body—and the sight is so horrifyingly familiar that Stiles has to look away.

The werewolves have gone utterly still, watching the scene play out with morbid fascination.

When Stiles turns back, he comes face-to-face with panting fairies. Each has been forced to kneel, bodies completely mummified by the nemeton. The only parts that have been left untethered are their faces. Stiles walks over to Morgan and crouches down in front of her. He meets her furious gaze with dead eyes, "I need you to listen," he whispers, "because if you don't, there'll be no walking out of this clearing for any of you. When you look at them, you see puppies. When you look at me, you see an inexperienced druid." He catches a glimpse of his own haunted expression in Morgan's eyes. "I'm here to tell you that they aren't dogs, they're wolves—with teeth and claws ready and willing to be put to use."

Otis flies onto his shoulder, and for a brief moment, he swears that Otis allows the Fae to see its form because each fairy sucks in a startled breath. For the first time, Stiles sees genuine fear in their eyes. "I'm also here to tell you that I'm not inexperienced," his eyes flash gold, "and I am no mere druid. What you did to this earth—to its guardians—all those years ago was as petty as it was stupid." He barks hollow laughter. "I mean, stupidity is the only explanation for your race's actions, is it not?"

He looks over at Grumpy. "Can't you feel it?" he whispers.

He turns to Rhys. "Well, can't you?" he murmurs.

The roots tighten further.

Stiles can feel it. He can feel everything.

Pain. Darkness. Poison. Chaos. Madness. Spreading. Infecting. Choking.

 _Everything._

Stiles' hand darts out, gripping Morgan's chin. He slaps her across the face. "Can't you feel it?!" he screams, the ragged sound echoes throughout the clearing. "I know what you've done. I've seen it. I've felt what you've left to rot in the aftermath." He sighs. "I also know that power is the only constant that you psychos respond to. So, I'm here to offer you a deal to benefit us both. If you take the deal, both court representatives will have to sign a binding blood contract with both the Hales and me." He grins. "If you don't take the deal, I'll let my magical tree devour you whole and screaming, just like it wants to. You'd make wonderful fertilizer." He stands and takes a step backward.

"Your choice."

* * *

Stiles and the Hales leave the clearing an hour later with two freshly signed blood contracts.

In exchange for the Fae using their green-thumbs and nature-based magic to restore the nemeton to its past glory, Stiles offered each court an endless supply of milk and honey. Also, a future gift from the nemeton.

Yeah, their eyes went wide at the mention of a present from a powerful ancient tree. It was then that Stiles knew he had them hooked—and an incentive for them to help.

 _Leave it to fairies to agree not after the threat of violent death, but after the promise of a special gift._

It also didn't hurt that Stiles' bloodthirsty stunt endeared him to all of the representatives—even Grumpy. After all, your enemy is more likely to respect you if they understand you; and his show of calculated malice was something each fairy could understand.

Stiles drew up each contract and had the Hales read over the terms. The Hales and Stiles then signed the documents with a smear of blood and an oath.

He then read it aloud to the Fae. Once every party was in agreement, Stiles (well, Otis) released the fairies. Then they added their own blood to the mix. When Rhys finished his oath, both documents glowed with the power of the binding.

And that was how Stiles made a deal with fairies—with milk, honey, and a few threats of being buried alive with the power of a malevolent raven. Sprinkle in a little blood and some Gaelic, and _bam!_ , there you have it—two binding contracts with the Fae courts tucked safely in Stiles' bottomless attaché.

* * *

When the Hales and Stiles finally make it back to the house, each werewolf makes it a point to hug him.

Laura goes first, wrapping him up tightly in her arms, "You've just officially become the coolest person I know." Then she disappears up the stairs.

Cal scoops him up next, actually _lifting_ Stiles off the ground—Christ. "It's Callahan," he whispers. Then he walks away, likely to inform Talia about everything that just happened.

Stiles looks around, but Peter has disappeared during all of the Hale-hugging.

He can't help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Stiles is too wired, so he steps out onto the back porch and contemplates all that he's just accomplished. He sits down on the plushy outdoor sofa—seriously, an outdoor sofa, who has that?—and curls his legs underneath him. He closes his eyes and senses the nemeton's power. It's pulsing with a renewed sense of power—a renewed sense of purpose. It's more alive. It seems…closer to his own magic than it was before.

Interesting.

A soft breeze hits Stiles and he shivers.

A fuzzy blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

Stiles opens his eyes, startled by the touch.

Peter is standing over him, clutching a huge mound of blankets and pillows. "Do you mind?"

Stiles shakes his head slowly.

Peter smiles—shyly?—and motions for Stiles to lay down.

And Stiles? Stiles lays down.

Peter slides onto the couch behind Stiles and lays down along his back. He yanks blankets over both of them, tucking and pulling until everything is cozy and Stiles is feeling deliciously warm. Peter then curls his arm over Stiles' chest, spreading a hot hand over his heart. He slowly pulls Stiles closer until every inch of their bodies is intertwined. Peter's feet slide up and down his own.

Stiles doesn't know what to say.

It's so warm.

It's so comfortable.

It's so _right._

 _Peter._

He doesn't know why, but tears prick at his eyes.

Peter nuzzles his cheek against Stiles' neck, the soft bristles of Peter's stubble tickling gently. "That," Peter rumbles into his skin, "was the _greatest_ thing I've ever witnessed." He gets closer to Stiles' ear. "I'm afraid that what I said earlier might not be possible."

Stiles makes a questioning noise in his throat.

Peter smiles contentedly against the back of Stiles' neck. "I don't think I want to be your friend anymore." He nips Stiles' ear. "That was the _sexiest_ thing I've ever seen," he whispers, "and now I know, quite certainly, that _I want so much more._ "

Stiles bites his lip. He stifles back a moan.

It's so _right._

" _Peter,_ " he gasps.

Peter hushes him, "Not now, sweetheart. We've got so much time for all of that." He squeezes Stiles gently, "Right now, for this night, just let me lie here with you."

Stiles hums. He closes his eyes.

 _So warm._

The last thing he hears is Peter chuckling softly and murmuring, "An emissary with the heart of a Left Hand? How did I ever get this lucky?"

Stiles is just lucid enough to mutter an answer back, "S'magic."

And then he loses himself to the warmth, the comfort, the rightness—he loses himself to Peter.


	10. Derek and the Real Girl

The first time that Stiles heard Derek slam a door was in the middle of April.

The sound of the front door going off like a gunshot made Stiles jump, his hand accidentally knocking over his open soda bottle. In the library. Where he wasn't supposed to eat or drink.

Stiles had quickly picked up the drink—damn you Dr. Pepper—and ran from the room to look for a towel. On his way into the kitchen, he saw Derek stomp past like some sort of 'roided-up toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Concerned, Stiles had called out to Derek. And then he quickly regretted it.

"What's the matter, dude?" Stiles had asked. "How was basketball practice?"

Derek had just turned back and glared at him. "The regular season's over, it wasn't a practice. It's called a _clinic._ "

"Well, okay then." Stiles wanted to comment on how stupid that sounded, but hey, he still has a tiny bit of a self-preservation instinct left, so he doesn't split hairs with the grumpy werewolf. "How was your clinic?"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Derek yelled, and then he climbed up the stairs three at a time.

Stiles had watched until he disappeared out of sight, waiting until he finally heard another door slam.

"Damn," Stiles muttered as he ransacked the kitchen's linen closet, "werewolf puberty sounds like a bitch."

* * *

The second time Stiles hears Derek slam a door is today, the last Friday of April. Stiles has been dealing with the Fae for over a week and listening to Derek sigh listlessly in his bunk every night.

Who could have guessed that Derek's hormones could be more irritating than a bunch of psychopathic sprites from another dimension? Not Stiles, that's for sure.

So, Stiles is stress baking.

It's not exactly something he's proud of, especially after the Sourdough Debacle of 2009—he and his father agreed never to speak of it, God there were so many loaves—but he's doing it anyway.

Derek's stress is causing Stiles stress, and since Stiles still hasn't quite come to terms with _literally anything he's done in the past month_ , he's making German chocolate cake. And cookies. And bread.

What? It's cheaper than therapy.

It's also way easier to explain to someone than, "I'm still suffering from the emotional backlash of witnessing everyone I know and love be brutally murdered by a crazy man, killing myself, traveling through time, and facing all of my ghosts as they walk around in the past, alive and entirely ignorant to my inner turmoil. Oh, and I might be developing feelings for the man who once bit my friends, kidnapped me, and killed a bunch—okay, they totally deserved it, eek still a coin toss on Laura—of people."

Yeah, way easier.

So, it's Friday afternoon and most of the pack is still at work or school, allowing Stiles to take over the kitchen. Derek's stupid sighs aren't letting him sleep—and Stiles has gotten used to getting more than three hours of sleep every night, goddamnit, and his nerves are fraying a little at the edges—so he's turned to baking his feelings away.

He hears the door slam around 2:30, and he can't help but knead the dough in front of him a little harder.

Stiles looks up as Derek, in all of his reclaimed Sourwolf glory, glares his way into the kitchen. He sees Derek's nose twitch.

Propping himself onto one of the barstools across from Stiles' spot at the breakfast bar, Derek takes in his flour-covered surroundings. He also takes four cookies.

"I didn't know you could cook," Derek says, looking casually away from Stiles.

Stiles looks around at the cooling racks filled with snickerdoodles and chocolate cake and then looks back at Sourwolf. He's tempted to pull a Derek and correct that this isn't _cooking_ , it's _baking_ , but he refrains. Just barely.

"I've been a little stressed recently," Stiles shrugs like it's no big deal (hint: it is). "I only do this to help calm my nerves." He glances at Derek from under his lashes. Stiles points at the glob of dough on the counter. "You wanna give it a try?"

He can see Derek perk up, and then immediately deflate. "I've never really done that before, I mean I wouldn't know—" Stiles cuts him off with a pat on the shoulder.

"Seriously, big guy, you'd be doing me a favor. I started a little too much all at once, so you'd really be helping me out." He drags Derek off the stool and hip-checks the dude into standing next to him. He starts kneading again. "You just gotta do a push and pull, nothing too hard because, like, look at your muscles." He shoves it over to Derek. "About five more minutes should do it." And then he turns away to start mixing up some icing.

Sometimes the best thing to do for someone in need is to remind them that you're there for them, even if you coat them in flour during the process.

It takes about three minutes for Derek to start sighing.

Christ.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Stiles asks innocently, like he doesn't have a death grip on a bag of desiccated coconut.

"What do you mean?" Derek answers.

"Well," _How to put this delicately?_ , "I've noticed you've been a bit on edge," _pissy_ , "lately, and I was just wondering if there's anything I can do?"

Derek remains silent, hands moving deftly over the dough.

Stiles continues, "Is it about your birthday? I've got something pretty sweet planned, but if you want to change it up that's totally cool."

More silence.

"Is it school? Basketball?" Ah-ha! There's a flinch—but still no answer. Something is interfering with Derek's love and devotion to basketball.

Now, what could do that?

He has a flash of panic, and then quickly realizes that the fire doesn't go down for another year and a half. Too early.

That means…

 _Oh, this is going to be good._

Stiles sidles up to Derek. "A girl perhaps?"

Derek whips his head, eyes wide and startled. "How did you know?"

He snorts, "You just told me."

Derek's shoulders slump and he looks at Stiles earnestly, flour on his nose and defeat in his eyes and says, "Her name is Paige and she totally hates me."

Stiles just pats him on the back and starts putting together the cake. He taps the countertop next to him. "Come park your little werewolf ass over here and tell Stiles all about your lady love."

Rolling his eyes, Derek hikes himself onto the counter. With his legs swaying, he begins: "So the first thing you need to know is that she plays the cello."

* * *

Peter finds them like that 20 minutes later, chatting over cake decorating and baking bread.

Derek immediately stops reminiscing about how Paige flips her hair—is this how Stiles sounded around Lydia?—and says, "Hey Peter."

The man shrugs off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down as he walks further into the kitchen. "Hello, nephew." He walks up to Stiles, boxing him in against the counter. Peter reaches an arm around him, face casually running along Stiles' neck. Stiles can hear him inhale. When Peter leans back, he's got a handful of snickerdoodles. He takes a slow bite, eyes closing briefly. Stiles' breathing becomes a bit shallow. Peter's eyes open and he smiles at Stiles. "How did you know that these are my favorite?"

"A happy accident." Truth. He once found a box of them at Derek's cave of man-pain, and Stiles knew that Derek was too self-suffering to ever buy himself something awesome and indulgent.

Also, cinnamon and Peter just make sense. They both have a bite to them.

Stiles pokes at the collar of Peter's shirt. "Is that blood?"

Peter just smirks and shoves another cookie in his mouth.

He takes a few steps back and looks over at Derek. "So what are you two ladies gossiping about in here?"

Derek flushes. "Stiles was giving me advice about a girl."

Peter snorts derisively, "Thank mother moon, your angst has a particularly strong gym locker stench. It's been burning my nose hairs for the past two weeks."

Stiles hits him in the stomach. "Don't be rude, asshole."

If Stiles can't be rude, then no one can. That's a straight-up law.

"Derek was just telling me about how he met a nice girl. She sounds great." Stiles is so going to investigate the shit out of this chick.

And, by the glint in Peter's eye, so is he.

Stiles sighs, not looking forward to playing babysitter. His work is never done.

So he eats a cookie.

* * *

It comes as a delight that, yes, Paige Krasikeva is actually as basic and mundane as Derek described. Stiles counts it as a win, leaning back against a set of lockers as his week-long investigation comes to a close.

The lunch bell rings, and Stiles makes his way to the outdoor seating area. He plops himself at a table five rows down from where Derek and Paige are sitting.

Good grief, is she eating _plain_ celery? Stiles shudders.

At least she isn't a crazy rapist/arsonist/murderer.

Stiles still makes a note to introduce her to flavor.

"She really is just in puppy love with Derek, isn't she?"

Stiles doesn't jump, doesn't look behind him. "Yep. It's sickening," he grimaces, "Derek must have a masochistic streak. I stole her iPod for an hour and she literally listens to nothing but cellos. Not even symphonies, y'know, with other instruments—it's just nonstop cellos."

Peter sits down across from Stiles. "That's disgusting." He holds out a pack of Reese's. "You want one?"

Stiles' stomach flip flops. He takes a peanut butter cup. "Thanks."

With a strange light in his eyes, Peter eats his own. He grins evilly around a bite. "I still think we should psych Derek out. Tell him that she'll never love a werewolf if she's a human or something."

Stiles gives him a warning look. "I swear to Thor, Peter, if you do something manipulative and crazy to Derek or that bland ass girl, I will rip your fingernails out. Repeatedly." He's found that matching Peter's sociopathic tendencies with his own is the only way to get through to him.

Peter pouts. "You're no fun." He looks over his shoulder at the couple. "He's not stupid enough to believe something like that." Peter does a double-take and frowns. "Well, maybe."

Stiles leans closer and says, "Forget Paige. We know she's okay." He looks over when Derek barks out a laugh. "I need your help with something."

Peter inches closer, too. "Something magical?"

"Potentially," Stiles whispers. "I'm glad I surveilled the school this week. I found something rather important." He grabs ahold of Peter's arm and drags him to the front of the school. Stiles peeks out around the corner of the building. He pulls back and motions for Peter to do the same.

"You see that black truck? The one with the guy sitting in it?"

Peter leans against the wall, "I sure do. What about him?"

He looks directly at Peter so that he can see how serious Stiles is. "I've met him before when I first got into town. He was weird around me, so I got his details and I looked him up." He pauses. "He's a hunter connected to the Argents."

Peter's eyes glint dangerously. "We have a peace treaty with the Argents."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles snorts contemptuously. "Well, he's a hunter connected to the Argents who's been following your 14-year-old nephew around for the past week. Maybe even longer."

Peter's claws come out. His eyes flash electric blue. "What's his name?"

"It's Jimmy," Stiles answers, "Jimmy Bouchard."


	11. Jimmy Bouchard, Eat My Shorts

_June 18, 2004_

 _5:27 AM_

"I don't have a good feeling about this, boss," Lee Drummond complains, glancing around at his fellow packmates.

No one else seems leery.

No one else seems to feel as he feels.

Deucalion Blackwood looks over at his beta—his Second—and chuckles. After tossing the last duffel bag into his SUV, he slams the trunk closed. "You worry too much."

He walks around to where Lee is standing. "Relax, it's two days until Solstice. Tonight's going to be fine—the Guild's even backing our play." Deucalion claps a warm hand against Lee's shoulder and whistles for his betas to pile into their assigned cars. "Once it's over, we'll have made history—and then we'll celebrate under Mother Moon alongside our brothers and sisters at the Gathering. What more can we ask for?"

"It's just—"

Deuc shakes his head and tightens his grip. "Don't fight me over this, Lee. Not now. Not again." He lets go suddenly, opening up the passenger door and propping a booted foot onto the step. "Besides, we'll be on Hale land. Nothing bad has ever happened on Hale territory."

Lee hangs his head, baring his throat ever-so-slightly to his Alpha.

Deucalion's posture loosens. He gives his Second a sunny smile. "If only you could see things as I do—you'd be a much happier man, my friend." And with that, he slaps the roof twice and slides into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him.

"I hope you're right, Alpha," Lee mutters to himself. He scans the compound, ears perking up to listen as the town around them begins to wake.

He takes one last look at the rising sun.

"God, I hope you're right."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:45 AM_

"I'd find a way to get busy if I were you."

Peter looks up from his pacing. "Well, luckily for both of us, dear brother, you are very much _not_ me."

"There's no need to get nasty about it," Cal sighs, leaning against the wall across from Talia's office. "It is, after all, sound advice. Mark's handing out chores left and right."

"I know, I know," Peter whispers harshly. "It's not really you that I'm angry at, it's—"

"Yourself," Cal finishes, nodding.

"No, you idiot," Peter scowls. "Talia!"

Cal rolls his eyes and crosses scarred arms over his broad chest. "What's she done now?"

"Well, for one, she's got a serious stick of charred rowan up her ass about the Gathering. The first guests are set to arrive in about an hour, and she's locked herself in there," Peter gestures toward the office door, "so that she can freak out and call a bunch of caterers or—"

"I'm confused," Cal interrupts. "Stick, ass...you're talking like this _isn't_ normal for our sister." He strokes his chin in feigned contemplation. "We are talking about the same Talia, are we not?"

Peter graces him with a sharp grin. "Sometimes I forget how similar we are."

Cal shrugs.

Humming thoughtfully, Peter continues: "You're right, of course." He stops angrily pacing and slumps next to his brother. "It's that she's using all of this," Peter waves a careless claw in the air, "as an excuse to avoid talking to me—well, I suppose _fighting_ with me would be an apter description."

"Picking fights so close to the Solstice, Peter? What would father say?"

"Hopefully nothing," Peter mutters darkly. "Or, at least, if he tried to talk, the dirt from his grave would fall into his mouth and choke him until he died all over again."

Silence.

"That's fair."

"Hmmm…yes, I know. I've imagined his death many times." Peter's eyes refocus from his morbid imaginings. "But picking fights, as you put it? I wish." He clenches a fist. "No, Callahan, she started this one."

Cal raises a skeptical brow.

Peter smiles wickedly. "She just didn't think that I'd find out about it so soon." His eyes flash, the response unconscious and unbidden. Something inside him rises, hot with outrage. "She always did like to go for the back of the neck."

"So what did she do?"

Peter stifles a growl. "I found my name in the inter-pack registry."

Cal winces, hands dropping to his sides. "Shit."

"Shit, indeed." Peter pushes off the wall and scowls one last time at Talia's door. "She's just looking for an excuse, any excuse—I can feel it." He starts prowling down the hallway, but then pauses and looks back over his shoulder. "Better watch your own back, brother—our Alpha might just try and arrange a bride for you, too."

And then Peter's gone, silent as a shadow.

Cal lets his legs give out until he's sitting, well, _sprawled_ on the floor, his back against the wall.

He stares at the door, and then up at the ceiling.

"Shit."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _1:58 PM_

Deucalion breathes deeply as he steps out of the SUV, long arms stretching above his head as he unwinds his spine. "I've forgotten how long that drive is," he says.

"It's no wonder," Lee snarks as he exits the vehicle, "you slept most of the way here."

Deuc grins, teeth sharp.

Lee rolls his eyes and starts collecting their luggage from the back.

Maggie, another beta, wanders over to them from her car. "It really is beautiful, isn't it? I wish we had a preserve like this back home."

The three of them stop and look around—admiring the Hales' territory. Overhead, the sun shines and birds chirp. A faint breeze rustles the tall grass around them. A sprawling mansion can be seen in the distance.

Deucalion's concentration is broken by the sound of more cars—more packs—entering the clearing. He takes out a bag and then smiles at Maggie. "Tell the others that we'll make camp in the southeast corner."

She gives him a jaunty salute. "Yes Sir, Alpha Sir!"

"She should give you more respect," Lee criticizes as she walks back to the rest of the pack.

Deucalion snorts. "Like you do?"

Lee smiles faintly. "It's all a part of the job."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _2:14 PM_

"My father is in town."

Victoria doesn't even look up from her mixing bowl. "What does he want?"

"I didn't say that he told me about it," Chris clarifies.

Victoria pauses at that, knuckles turning white around the handle of her spatula. "Oh?"

Chris nods. "But I know he's in town. My contact within his circle told me that they're all here."

Directing her icy gaze at her husband, Victoria rips open a bag of chocolate chips. "Well. That certainly doesn't sound good."

"I don't like it, Vic. This close to the wolves' celebration…he's planning something." Chris takes a seat at the breakfast bar and stares her down, willing his wife to say something—to _do_ anything.

They both look up when they hear a loud _thump!_ followed by Allison's guilty laughter.

"We're taking a vacation," Victoria declares as she starts scooping out cookies onto a baking sheet.

Dread crawls up Chris' spine. "But, Victoria—"

"We're taking a _vacation_ ," Victoria repeats, authority coloring her words. She dismisses him by turning towards the oven. "Get Allison packed. We leave after I'm finished with these."

Chris is already walking up the stairs by the time she says it, conscience forcibly silent and feet as heavy as his heart.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _5:59 PM_

"No."

"No?"

"No," Talia repeats, spine stiff as she slips out of her full-wolf shift and into a silk robe. She looks lazily, as a predator is wont to do, around the abandoned distillery. "We already have a peace treaty with the hunters. We're not going to poke at that hornet's nest for the sake of your—what did you call it? oh, yes— _vision_."

Lee tenses a split second after Deucalion does.

"We could improve hunter-were relations! The Guild has fully endorsed my plans _and_ this meeting!" Deuc argues. "Your assistance, hell, just your _appearance_ , would give us a chance—"

Talia silences him with an imperious wave of her hand.

Laura shuffles closer to her mother's flank.

"I admire your tenacity and your project, but I must think of my pack first." Talia's eyes burn the deepest of reds. "We are busy preparing for the next two weeks, and quite frankly, I don't see you emerging from such a meeting victorious." She lifts a derisive lip. "I hear they are sending Gerard."

Deucalion searches Talia's face, looking for any sign of doubt.

For a glimpse of camaraderie.

He doesn't find one.

"There is nothing I can say to convince you to come and support my cause?"

"Consider the use of my land as sufficient support." Talia motions for Mark and Laura to follow her. "Though I still remain skeptical, I do wish you good luck, Alpha Blackwood. May Mother Moon shine down on your endeavors." She nods her head elegantly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, my betas and I have matters to attend to."

Lee remains silent as he and Deuc watch the Hales disappear into the trees.

"I guess it's up to us," Deucalion announces after a beat. He shakes his head, disappointed. "I guess it always was."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:04 PM_

"Can I spend the night tonight?" Scott whispers, small voice muffled even further by the blanket fort he's sitting in.

Stiles lifts the main flap and crawls into the middle. He sits criss-cross-applesauce and rests his bony chin in his cupped hands. "Is your dad being mean again?"

Scott looks away. "Mom tries to hide it…but, yeah. I hear them through my vent. He—," his brown eyes shine with unshed tears. "—he tried to hit her the other day, I don't…Stiles, I don't know what to do."

Scooting closer to his best friend, Stiles wraps his arms around Scott and squeezes tight. "It's okay, Scotty. We'll figure it out."

And speaking those words there, under the protection of that shoddy blanket fort—a promise lost amongst a sea of throw pillows and old sheets—gave both boys the courage to believe that it was true.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _11:12 PM_

His pack is dead.

 _Dead._

His vision is gone.

 _Gone._

And so is his eyesight.

Deucalion blinks bloody, sightless eyes.

He can feel the warmth radiating from Maggie's cooling body against his fingertips.

She'd jumped in front of the bullet meant for him.

He feels something warm trickle down his face.

Blood?

Sweat?

Tears?

Who cares?

No one. There's no one left to care.

Deucalion's pack is dead, his eyesight is gone, his hope for the future extinguished—and something fundamental snaps within.

An all-consuming rage whites out his mind and lights his nerves afire.

Flashbacks flicker against the dark amphitheater of his mind.

Gerard murdering his own men, gun firing rapidly and without hesitation.

A mask appearing on the hunter's face, wolfsbane gas diffusing rapidly from above.

More bullets fired, felling each member of his pack.

Choking on his own blood, wolfsbane burning his windpipe, as Gerard straddles his chest and pours a concentrated version of what's in his lungs into his eyes.

Screaming.

Mad ramblings about murdered brothers and vengeance, of monsters and men. Whispers of weak fools who sought peace, both human and wolf.

" _There can be no peace," Gerard had spat. "Not while your kind still lives."_

There can be no peace.

There can be no peace.

There can be no peace.

Those words dance across the dark halls of Deucalion's eyes.

He's picking himself up from the dirt floor of the distillery, limping towards the door, when he hears it.

The sound of claws extending.

The faint _whoosh!_ of a hand moving through the air.

Deucalion catches Lee's hand before it can rip through the fragile skin at this throat.

"You led us here!" Lee screams, agony in every word. "Look at what you've done!"

Deuc blinks.

"You don't deserve to be Alpha!" Lee growls, eyes glowing gold. He roars as Deucalion crushes his wrist.

He quiets as Deucalion snaps his neck.

"There can be no peace."

And then a spark from his beta enters his heart, and Deucalion welcomes the burn.


	12. Welcome to The Jungle

_June 18, 2004_

 _5:27 AM_

"I've got a good feeling about this year's Gathering, boss," Lee Drummond says as he taps the steering wheel. "With everything that's come out this year? And all of the other packs chomping at the bit? We've got a lot of leverage going into those peace talks."

Deucalion Blackwood looks over at his beta—his Second—and smiles.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:45 AM_

"No, sweetheart, that's not how my dick works."

Stiles pouts at Peter and squirms in his lap. "Are you sure?"

Peter sighs and sets down his coffee on the side table. He leans back against the outdoor sofa, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. "I'd know if I were able to do that. Trust me."

Stiles grins, unrepentant, and buries his face in Peter's neck. "So what are we doing today?"

"You're doing absolutely nothing. I know that you've been dealing with Rhys the last three days because of some sort of honey-hoarding dispute. Talia has even forbidden you from contributing to the chore list."

Stiles snorts. " _Forbidden_ me?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, dear, but you smell," Peter breathes in deeply, "absolutely _exhausted_."

Stiles' eyes close, and he tilts his face into the sun. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh…" Peter shifts slightly, a pause noticeable in his speech.

"What?" Stiles asks curiously.

"Nothing, nothing," Peter continues, voice light. "I just think that you should go to bed, get some sleep." He trails a careless finger up and down Stiles' shoulder. "Tonight's an important night."

Stiles scrunches up his brow, confused. "I thought the Solstice didn't start until Sunday?"

"You're right," Peter murmurs. "But, this time, will you trust _me_? If I ask you to go rest, and I tell you tonight is important—will you trust me, will you do as I ask?"

Opening his eyes slowly, Stiles meets Peter's burning gaze.

"Of course."

And then his lips softly meet Peter's.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _1:58 PM_

Deucalion breathes deeply as he steps out of the SUV, long arms stretching above his head as he unwinds his spine. "I've forgotten how long that drive is," he says.

"It's no wonder," Lee snarks as he exits the vehicle, "you slept most of the way here."

Deuc grins at his Second's sass.

Lee rolls his eyes and starts collecting their luggage from the back.

Maggie, another beta, wanders over to them from her car. "It really is beautiful, isn't it? I wish we had a preserve like this back home."

The three of them stop and look around—admiring the Hales' territory. Overhead, the sun shines and birds chirp. A faint breeze rustles the tall grass around them. A sprawling mansion can be seen in the distance.

Deucalion's concentration is broken by the sound of more cars—more packs—entering the clearing. He takes out a bag and then smiles at Maggie. "Tell the others that we'll make camp in the southeast corner."

She gives him a jaunty salute. "Yes Sir, Alpha Sir!"

"She should give you more respect," Lee criticizes as she walks back to the rest of the pack.

Deucalion snorts. "Like you do?"

Lee smiles, content. "It's all a part of the job."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _2:14 PM_

Chris is freaking out.

Chris is standing in the middle of a Pots'N'Stuff, surrounded by plants and dirt and flowers, and he's freaking the fuck out.

He's never been on a first date.

It was always sneaking out behind his father's back.

Or being told he was arranged to marry a woman from another clan.

He's almost thirty years old, and he's never been on a first date.

His phone is at his ear before he can register that he's dialed a number.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end purrs.

"Peter,"—shit, Chris can't believe he's saying this—"I need your help."

"Hmmm, getting cold feet are we?"

"No!" Chris defends, jumping back as an employee tries to spritz water on a plant next to him. He stalks over to another aisle and clenches a fist. "I just…what kind of flowers does Stiles like?"

Silence.

"If I can recall correctly, I think he's mentioned lilies. Stargazer lilies."

His shoulders unwind.

Stargazer lilies. He can get those.

Chris clears his throat a bit awkwardly. "Are we still on for 5:30, then?"

Peter laughs sensuously. "This is going to be amazing." And then he hangs up.

Chris takes a few moments for himself, breathing evenly until he can finally focus on the mission at hand.

Stargazer lilies.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _5:59 PM_

"We're here," Peter continues, voice low, "to ask you…"

"On a date," Chris finishes, holding out the bouquet of stargazer lilies. "With both of us."

Stiles stands, hands covering his nipples and mouth softly gaping open. "A date?" he whispers.

"With the both of us," Peter adds. "We've talked it over, and we want to make this work."

Slowly lowering his hands, Stiles feels tears well in his eyes. "God, you two are so amazing it's _stupid_!" He carefully lifts Chris' proffered flowers and takes a hesitant sniff.

Stiles turns adoring eyes on Chris. "These are beautiful."

Chris' face blushes. "Not as beautiful as yo—"

He's cut off as Stiles crashes his lips against Chris'.

When Stiles pulls back with a wet smack and a huge grin, Chris can't help but follow his lips. After a few more lazy kisses, they part.

"That was rather hot," Peter murmurs, eyes heavy.

Stiles smooths out his hair and takes a step back. He sets the flowers on Derek's desk and practically sprints over to the closet. "Just—uh, give me a second to change. You can sit…" Stiles scrambles over to the rolling chair and clears off a bunch of research. "…here, or, uh stand—"

He runs back to his closet and shucks off his pants.

He doesn't realize what he's doing until he's about to step into a pair of new underwear.

Stiles looks over his shoulder and finds both Peter and Chris leaning against the bunk, eyes firmly fixed on his ass.

"Don't mind us," Peter waves a hand. "Do continue."

"Please," Chris groans. "Feel free."

Stiles turns back around, hiding his pleased smile as he buttons up his pants.

"So where are we going?" he asks as he shrugs on a shirt.

Strong hands catch Stiles' hips, turning him until he comes face-to-face with Chris.

"I couldn't resist," Chris whispers, hands tightening around Stiles' slim waist. Chris' deft fingers steadily finish buttoning Stiles' shirt. "And to answer your question," he continues, "it's a surprise."

And as it turns out, it is.

Chris and Peter drive him out to Tony's.

Stiles cries in the parking lot.

When he finally works up the nerve to enter with his dates, Stiles' heart feels free.

They sit in a booth. Chris lounges across from Stiles, and Peter sidles in next to him.

Stiles orders banana pancakes with blueberry syrup.

Peter tries to eat half of his order.

Chris offers Stiles some of his onion rings to make up for it.

All three of them laugh and avoid talking about Very Serious Things.

Stiles tells them his favorite color is red.

Peter tells them he doesn't like the sound of squeaky erasers on paper.

Chris tells them that he thought Santa Claus was real until he was 14 because, why not? Everything else was real.

They all laugh extra hard at that.

It's the most mundane first date in the history of first dates. At least, it's the most mundane first date a trio like them could ask for.

And that's what makes it perfect.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:04 PM_

Stiles doesn't really remember where he—his little, past self—is at this particular time on this particular day, and he doesn't much care.

Chris has his arm wrapped around his shoulder and Peter has his arm wrapped around his waist; he's the filling in a dreamboat sandwich, and he's _not_ going to complain about it.

They're all walking up the Hales' driveway, buzzing off of the energy from their date. As they reach the porch steps, a lilting British voice calls out, "Excuse me?"

Peter tenses.

Chris reaches for his gun.

Stiles whips around, fingertips sparking. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Alpha Blackwood, Deucalion to my friends and colleagues," the man says. "I was about to return to my pack's camp when I saw you walk by. From the description I was given, am I correct in assuming that you are Stiles Gajos, emissary to the Hale pack?"

Stiles nods hesitantly, noting that Peter still hasn't retracted his claws.

Deucalion holds out a hand. "I'd just like to thank you personally for what you've done for our community. Because of you, both the Council and the Were Guild have sent representatives to construct nationally recognized peace treaties during this year's Gathering. I was just in there discussing it with your Alpha."

"You're welcome," Stiles says, still rather taken aback.

Deucalion tips his head down respectfully. "I had thought I was alone in my endeavor—you've helped me realize that I am not." He releases Stiles' hand and backs away slowly. Eyeing Chris and Peter, he leaves them with a, "Have a good evening, gentlemen."

Nothing but the forest's cicadas can be heard for a moment.

Stiles coughs into a fist. "Well…that was fucking weird."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _11:12 PM_

Stiles flops onto his mattress, a happy sigh escaping his parted lips.

"Quiet down up there, will you," Derek grumps as he bangs a fist against the top bunk. "Some of us have shitty Solstice chores to do tomorrow."

"Sorry," Stiles replies, not very sorry at all. "I just had an amazing day."

"I know, I know. You don't have to brag."

Stiles rolls over and leans down until he's peering at Derek's grumpy face. "Yes, I _really_ do." He wiggles back onto his bed and puts his hands behind his head. "It was our first date."

There's a pause. "Really?"

"Really, really."

"…I'm happy for you Stiles," Derek whispers. "You deserve nice dates and flowers."

"Oh!" Stiles exclaims. "Thanks for putting them in a vase, I, um forgot."

More like Chris' hands made him forget.

"No problem," Derek yawns. "I'm glad you guys are working things out."

Stiles grins in the darkness.

"But, Stiles?"

"Hmmm?"

"Don't ever have sex with them on my bed."

Stiles cackles into his pillow.


	13. Love Me Two Times

"—and now let's move on to this meeting's final topic. As we have discussed earlier in the week, we've been bestowed an unprecedented amount of luck these past few months thanks to…"

Stiles tunes out Alpha Ito, stilling in his seat as a large, warm hand snakes its way under the table and up his thigh.

 _Oh fuck._

Gritting his teeth, Stiles quickly masks his scent and schools his expression. He does it just in time, too, because that skillful hand now has a nice, firm grip on his cock.

Stiles closes his eyes briefly, torn between trying to pray the hand away and begging it to stroke him harder.

He turns his head slowly to the left, opening his eyes just wide enough to see Peter lounging in the seat next to him, a mildly interested gaze masking just how smug and horny Stiles knows he is right now.

Stiles can't really blame him. It's been almost two weeks straight of boring-as-shit meetings.

Stiles was only required to attend the Were Guild meetings that involved his investigation, but he had wanted to go to all of them. He thought it'd be a really great learning experience, a way to understand the intricacy of pack politics.

He knows better now.

Everything from intra-pack politics to water rights disputes had its own meeting.

Drawing up new pack land boundaries? Meeting. Someone wants to add vegetarian options to the Gathering's meal plans? Meeting. Adoption policies for feral children? Meeting. What colors to decorate with for the Winter Solstice? Another fucking meeting.

About _color schemes_.

Stiles finally understands why Talia had decided not to give him any extra chores. Anything on top of all of this would've been torture.

He's spent four whole days sitting in the middle of the Hale's abandoned barn—which, funnily enough, isn't actually abandoned at all. The inside is outfitted with a huge fucking dining table (for the Alphas) that's surrounded by rows and rows of bleachers (for their selected representatives).

Talia grimaced when Stiles dubbed it Thunderdome.

It's been four whole days in a barn with a bunch of nosy, territorial alphas who questioned every aspect of his involvement with the Argent investigation. They even printed out copies of the report he had e-mailed them and went through each page, asking him to clarify or go into greater detail every five minutes.

Needless to say, by day three, Stiles had nearly killed a bunch of werewolves in a barn.

So here he sits, on the fourth and final day of the Gathering's meetings about the investigation, listening to Alpha Ito commend him for his hard work, and trying not to fidget as Peter _commends him for his hard work_.

This isn't exactly how he had pictured thanking Talia for letting them sit with the Big Bad Alphas at the table instead of up in the nosebleed section with the rest of the plebs.

"I hate you," Stiles whispers in Peter's ear. "I hate you so much right now."

The hand starts stroking him faster, harder. "No you don't, baby. In fact, by the looks of it, you _love me_ right now."

"I'm going to fu—"

"Did you say something, Emissary Gajos?"

Stiles jerks his gaze up, meeting Alpha Ito's impenetrable stare. "No, no—I was just commenting on how thankful I am that we're all here today." He zaps Peter under the table, forcing him to stop jacking his dick.

Ugh, _propriety_.

She squints but nods in agreement. "I, too, understand that sentiment." She stands up from her seat and looks between the gathered alphas. "We're all here, alive and well—and _prepared_ because of this brave young man here."

Alpha Ito locks her eyes back on Stiles, and he can't help but gulp at the glimmer in her eye that he spots. "I for one," the alpha continues, face emotionless, "am going to take his advice, and _get my head out of my ass_."

Holy shit.

 _Holy shit._

Stiles can't breathe.

Talia's shoulders straighten and Stiles feels Peter's muscles tense.

The entire barn, which had been filled with thundering snarls and heated growls for the last two weeks, goes completely silent.

And then Deucalion throws his head back and _laughs_.

He laughs and he laughs, gasping for breath in between gales of deep, guttural guffaws. Deucalion laughs so hard that he ends up slouched in his chair, as if his body is about to roll onto the floor on the strength of his giggles alone. He calms himself down just enough to wipe tears from his eyes and snicker out, "I second the motion."

And then the rest of the alphas start laughing, too.

* * *

Stiles' meeting with the Hunter's Council goes a little differently.

Specifically, he shows up in the dead of night to the little RV park that they've set up in their allotted space on the very edge of the Hale's land and drags all of them out of bed by their ankles.

Startled screams fill the air as strong, healthy roots drag each hunter to the middle of the camp. More screams join theirs as the hunters running in from patrol get wrapped up, too.

Stiles stands in the middle of a dozen hunter officials, arms crossed and patiently waiting out their—admittedly justified—terror.

It takes about ten minutes.

When they finally get ahold of themselves, Stiles takes a seat in the dirt and steeples his fingers. "Hello."

They all stare at him like he's crazy.

Maybe he is.

Just a little.

A man finally chokes up enough courage to respond bitterly, "Is this what you consider good faith?"

Stiles grins sardonically. "And because you guys have so much of that?"

That gets no response.

His grin grows wider. "I take it you've deduced who I am?"

A woman to his left nods shakily. "You're the emissary who sent us the e-mail. The one who sent Kate Argent to prison."

Stiles nods. "Spot on!" He claps his hands together and then splays his palms outward. "Now I know that you all have been drawing up new contracts and peace treaties with the packs these last couple of weeks—and from what I've heard, they've gone really well. I want you to know that I'm impressed. Truly."

The bound hunters look at him warily.

Stiles' grin deadens. "But I just wanted to reiterate something while I have you all here. You know what I can do with a computer and some coffee—that sent one of you to prison for life." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "I just wanted you to really understand that I _chose_ to do it that way. I did it _legally_."

Stiles sees some of the hunters start to pick up what he's putting down. He settles his hands calmly on his knees. "But I want to let you know that I'm not averse to other, more _illegal_ methods to taking you down if you decide to kill indiscriminately." Stiles feels the nemeton hum in agreement. He hears Otis caw obnoxiously overhead.

"I am not a violent man—" Stiles says quietly as he stands. He brushes off his pants and whispers for the nemeton to let them go. Roots slowly unwind and slither back underground. He gives them all one final look. "So don't make me become one."

He gives them all a respectful bow and a genuine smile. "Now enjoy the rest of your night, and have a safe drive back to your homes."

And then with Otis' talons latching onto his shoulder, a quick hiss of Greek, and a snap of his fingers—Stiles disappears into the night.

* * *

He reappears in front of the nemeton.

Stiles looks up at the giant tree towering over him, its bark glowing faintly under the moonlight. Powerful limbs sprawl out from its base in all directions. Its black leaves rustle in the breeze.

He walks forward slowly and places a hand against the trunk. He can feel it reach out to him, feel its soothing, positive energy.

It's so different from what it once was.

Everything is.

"CAW!"

Stiles turns his head to the side, reaching up to pet Otis' silky feathers. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Change is inherent to living. It's just—" his words stutter out of him. "It's just really hard sometimes, buddy. I think it'll always be hard, these _sometimes_ —but I think…I think it's okay that it is."

"Caw," Otis croaks out, quieter than Stiles has ever heard it. Otis brushes a gentle wing against Stiles' cheek, wiping away the tears that had been silently falling.

Stiles chokes out a laugh. "Thanks." He pets Otis' head some more. "So is this where you ditch me? Now that you're all healed up."

Otis nips him in the throat.

"Ouch!" Stiles yelps. "Okay, okay! Sorry! I just figured, y'know, that your interest in me is over now that you've gotten what you want."

Otis gives him the bitchiest look a bird can give.

"Oh, come on! Give me a little credit. I did the reading! Usually, spiritual manifestations dissipate after their task is complete. And I've been tracking how close your energy gets to mine. They've been growing closer in steady increments for months, but it's stopped." Stiles focuses on the purple thread of energy thrumming between him and the nemeton and then lets it go. He shrugs. "I just assumed that we were coming up on when you wanted our connection to end."

Otis tilts its head at Stiles and stares.

Stiles stares back.

He and a magical, impossible bird share a moment under the branches of an ancient tree and the light of the full moon.

This is his life now.

"Hey!" Stiles yelps as Otis knocks him down onto the forest floor. "What are you doing?"

Otis hops up onto Stiles' chest, the position eerily similar to the first time they met. "CAW!"

Stiles' brow furrows. "Hold still? What are you—"

And then with a flash of violet light, Otis is gone.

It takes Stiles a moment to comprehend what just happened. When he does, he lets his head thunk back down onto the dirt.

He's not embarrassed about the fresh tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He's not.

Otis was his friend in a time when he had nothing. It's okay to be sad. It is. It's just...

That _fucking_ bird.

Stiles lays on the ground and sniffles, knowing that he still—

He feels something brush against his chest and brushes a hand at it mindlessly.

It happens again.

It takes a second for Stiles to realize that what he's feeling is _under_ his shirt.

"Holy shit!" Stiles exclaims, jackknifing upward and frantically feeling up his chest.

There's nothing there, but he can still feel something moving. It isn't an unpleasant sensation, but it is fucking _alarming_. Stiles' mind spins, trying to figure out just what the hell is happening—and then he feels it.

His power and the nemeton's—they're no longer running side by side. They're intertwined.

They're one and the same.

 _Holy shit._

Stiles remembers back to his first meeting with Otis, how he'd been so sure at first glance that Otis was meant to be—

"Holy fucking shit," Stiles whispers, staring down and his hands before tentatively snapping his fingers once more.

In the blink of an eye, Stiles transports himself into his bathroom. He locks the door and flicks on the light.

Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, meeting his own wild-eyed gaze in a daze. He counts to three and then shucks off his shirt.

"Oh, you absolute _bastard_ ," Stiles scolds. "You had me thinking you turned into cosmic dust or something!" He pokes at his chest. "Goddamn you, Otis!"

Then Stiles takes a good long look, because in the center of his chest—right where Otis had last perched only minutes before—rests that _fucking_ bird.

Otis ruffles his feathers smugly, and Stiles can _feel_ it. He watches as Otis flies in lazy loops across Stiles' body, each detail of the pest he hates to love perfectly clear against Stiles' pale skin.

Stiles leans forward, stretching his arms out and leaning his head against the counter. "You don't have to be so proud of yourself," he groans. He rolls his eyes in the mirror for that damn bird to see.

Then his earlier epiphany hits him, and Stiles perks right up. He grins, wide and slow. "But you know what this means, right? Cementing our bond? Binding yourself to me? It means I was right." Otis pauses in its gloating. Stiles' grin is Cheshire-cat cruel. "You _are_ my familiar! You wanted to be my familiar the _entire time!_ "

Stiles starts whooping, spinning around joyfully and hugging himself. He pokes the bird, who's refusing to meet Stiles' happy gaze.

"Just admit it, you curmudgeonly asshole! You like me—no, no—you _love_ me! Go on, admit it!"

Stiles finds out that even though Otis is now 2-D, he still packs a mean peck.

"Worth it!" Stiles shouts in victory, opening the bathroom door and racing down the hallway. "Fucking _worth it!_ "

* * *

"So are you excited for the fireworks tonight?" Cal asks lazily, pacing back and forth while he waits for Stiles to answer.

It takes Stiles a minute, on account of the fact that Cal just body-slammed him into the dirt and Stiles can't _breathe_.

"—sure," he finally wheezes out, rolling onto his hands and knees. He coughs and straightens himself up, getting back into a fighting stance. "I've always been a fan of things that explode."

Cal nods, not surprised _at all_ by that revelation.

Stiles feints right, then left, and then takes a jab at Cal's solar plexus. "But what about you guys?" He ducks under Cal's meaty fist and dances backward. "Isn't it kind of shitty with the whole…" Stiles waves a taped hand at his ear.

Cal shrugs, then charges forward, vaulting through the air and wrapping Stiles in his thighs. "Loud noises aren't bad when we know they're about to go off. It takes some practice to hear around it, but then, so does everything." He wraps an elbow around Stiles' throat. "And besides, the kids love it. Can't do the Fourth of July without fireworks."

"How freakishly patriotic of you," Stiles gurgles out before he taps repeatedly at Cal's stupidly hard bicep.

Cal immediately lets him go, holding out a hand to help Stiles stagger to his feet.

Stiles bends over and pants softly, flashing the big guy a grateful smile when Cal passes him a cold bottle of water.

They both stand there in silence as they drink.

"Thank you."

Stiles spits out his mouthful of water. "I'm sorry, come again?"

Cal looks at him, gaze strangely intense. "I've never said it, and you deserve it. Thank you, Stiles. I'm not quite sure you understand the entirety of what you've done for us."

Oh, Stiles knows. "The invest—"

Cal waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not even talking about the investigation—although, that's another good point. I'm talking about our pack. You've helped us become safer, but you've also helped us grow." Cal smiles softly. "You play checkers with Nana and you teach the pups about magic. You helped our land become healthy, and God-knows-what you're brewing in that old garden shed, but it's made the garden thrive." Cal walks over to Stiles and rests a scarred hand on his shoulder. "What you've done for Peter."

Stiles raises his eyebrows skeptically.

Cal lets out a humorless laugh and then lowers himself to the ground. "You don't even know what you helped us avoid, and I'll be forever grateful."

Stiles sits down next to him. "I, uh, understand the first part of what you said, but I'm not sure what you mean by Peter. I…" Stiles blushes and looks away. "I just love him. It's not super complicated."

"Did you know that you were the first?"

Stiles whips his head around and scoffs. "Yeah, I don't believe that."

It's Cal's turn to raise a brow. "Our birthright offers us a lot of privileges, Stiles, in both the mundane and supernatural worlds alike." He sighs. "My brother is rich, smart, handsome, and powerful. And people have loved him—but only for those things, only for what he could offer them." Cal lays down in the grass. "You're the first outsider that's ever been openly hostile to him. The first that's ever challenged him. The first to teach him something." He rolls his head to the side and looks up at Stiles. "I'll put it this way: it's my job to fight, and when I first saw the way my brother looked at you, I thought I was going to have to. But then you turned out to be a miracle wrapped in an enigma, and my little brother—the one who sticks to the shadows—decided it was time to take a step out of the darkness and fall in love."

He sighs. "You did that. You brought him out of a dark place—one that I was afraid would soon be causing conflict between him and Talia."

Stiles is curious about what he means by that, but feels too much like Cal has body-slammed him all over again to ask any questions. "Well, shit, Cal. Tell me how you really feel."

Cal rolls his eyes and then sits up. He wraps Stiles in a bear hug and says, "I am. You did something amazing for my family, Stiles—even if you don't see it. Just know that I do. So, thank you."

Stiles winds his hands around Cal and hugs him back.

He gives really great hugs.

"But hurt him and I'll rip your arms off. That sociopath is still my baby bro."

Stiles laughs wetly into Cal's sweaty shirt. "Deal."

* * *

"We're…" _gasp! smack!_ "…missing the fireworks, darling."

Stiles moans against Peter's mouth. "I don't care." And he doesn't. His conversation with Cal has been percolating in his brain the entire afternoon, and as soon as Peter had gotten back from patrol, Stiles had pounced on him.

Stiles drags his hands down Peter's back and tucks them down the waistband of his jeans, cupping Peter's ass and pulling him even closer.

They grind together like that, with Stiles perched on Peter's desk and Peter standing between his thighs.

Stiles sucks on Peter's bottom lip, digging his teeth in before pressing gentle kisses along the man's neck. Peter arches into it, practically purring when Stiles laves at a particular spot on his jaw.

Peter wraps a hand around Stiles' knee, slowly lifting his leg until their groins are _finally_ in perfect alignment. Stiles moans even louder as Peter begins to thrust in earnest, his cock rutting eagerly against Stiles' own.

They're so lost in one another that neither of them hears Peter's door open and close.

"Well isn't that a pretty sight?"

Stiles' dick jerks at the sound of that low voice, and he whimpers into Peter's mouth when he feels a work-roughened hand slide under his shirt.

Stiles barely opens his eyes as Peter breaks their kiss.

Strong fingers grip his chin and force his head to the side. He doesn't even have time to say a breathy hello before Chris leans down and drags him into a heated kiss.

With Peter still slowly grinding against him and Chris pressed along his side, Stiles feels totally and completely and _sinfully_ good.

It's been like this for the past week. Their group dates have turned into group dates with benefits. These slow, exploratory heavy-petting sessions have been all that Stiles has been able to think about. He daydreams about their hands all over him, their mouths worshiping him. He's taken a lot of cold showers recently.

 _A lot_.

And, strangely enough, it's all been so fucking _easy_.

He never feels uncomfortable or awkward—he just feels safe.

Stiles is sure that in time, when they finally make it to having penetrative sex or threesomes or whatever—sure, he'll feel awkward.

It's a lot of body parts to maneuver, after all.

But it won't be a shameful sort of awkward, the kind that makes him look away in embarrassment.

No, it won't be like that. It'll be that wonderful sort of awkward—the kind that makes him blush and fidget and _laugh_.

Because being with them, however impossible their circumstances may be, has been the easiest choice Stiles has ever made. And he keeps choosing them again and again.

He'd definitely choose Chris' tongue over fireworks any fucking day _, goddamn_.

"Chris!" he gasps out, pulling away just enough to allow a clear thought to enter his head. "Chris," he repeats. He squeezes his legs. "Peter."

Both men run their hands up and down his body, waiting for him to tell them what he wants.

"Take me to bed," he whispers. "Please."

* * *

"So I missed you at the fireworks last night," Derek says sassily from his spot on the couch. He and Stiles are having a movie night/sleepover, and Stiles still can't get over that sleepovers are a thing he and Derek Hale do together.

"Hmmm…" Stiles replies. "Really? Could've sworn I was there."

Derek kicks Stiles' foot. "Nope. You were noticeably absent, given that you were supposed to be the guest of honor."

Stiles refuses to blush. "If you must know, my boyfriends and I had a quiet night in. It's been a long couple of weeks and I was tired."

"Uh-huh," Derek snorts, the bratty bastard. He crooks two fingers on each hand for emphasis as he repeats, "'Quiet.' Sure, I believe you."

Stiles tosses a pillow at him. "Get out of here with your sassy quotations. Do you actually want me to go into detail about my sex life with your uncle? Because that's what it sounds like to me."

Derek pales. "Lesson learned, Stiles. I will never joke about it again." He shudders. "You're really good at turning things around on me. I hate it."

Stiles grins, victorious. "I know."

Derek launches himself across the couch, catching Stiles by the ankle as he tries to scramble away. "Help, help, I'm being repressed!"

"Shut up, Stiles! You knew what would happen if you grossed me out like that again! I warned you—" Derek gives him a funny look. "Hey, wait—are you okay?"

Stiles has stilled underneath him, eyes distant. Sitting up slowly, Stiles looks at Derek seriously. "Derek, I need you to go tell your mom and Cal that someone with malicious intent has entered the northwestern territory."

Derek nods, jumping up. "What are you going to do?"

Stiles shuffles over to the front door and starts stuffing his feet into a pair of tennis shoes. They're a little big and—yep those are definitely women's shoes.

Laura.

Goddamn, the girl has big-ass feet.

Stiles looks back at Derek, who looks so young, but so determined. "Tell your mom that I'm engaging the Benedict Arnold protocol. Got it?"

Derek nods. "Benedict Arnold. Right. Okay." He runs forward and hugs Stiles. "Be safe, alright?" And then he sprints across the hall to the other side of the mansion.

Stiles shoots off texts to Peter and Chris, giving them each the coordinates of his destination. He pats at Otis, who's fluttering against his chest.

"That really didn't take long, did it, buddy?"

Stiles hears an amused _Caw!_ echo in his mind.

"Well here goes nothing."

Stiles snaps his fingers.

* * *

Stiles ends up, once again, in the preserve. The intruders aren't even that far off from where the nemeton is hidden.

Stiles considers the implication of what that means.

 _That evil bastard knew about it the whole time, didn't he? He just hadn't found it until...well, until he found it._

Stiles moves silently across the forest, leaning up against a tree as he watches a small group of camouflaged hunters creep around in the dark.

One of them stumbles into a briar-patch and Stiles has to cover his mouth so a laugh doesn't escape.

He waits another ten minutes before revealing himself because he swore to Talia that he'd give them time to actually show up.

"A bit late for an evening stroll, isn't it fellas?"

They all whip around to face him. Or, they try to. Stiles is currently invisible.

Yeah, _invisible_. Not just a glamour like the one he pulled off on his Harris Heist.

A nemeton sure brings one hell of a power-boost to the table.

Stiles toys with them for a few more minutes, making scary shrieking sounds and snapping twigs. It's absolutely hilarious. He only stops when he gets confirmation texts from Laura, Peter, and Chris about their respective ETAs.

It's so stupidly efficient that Stiles kind of wants to cry.

Stiles senses an SUV coming in hot a few miles out, so Stiles reveals himself. He instantly has several guns cocked and aimed in his direction. He smiles and conjures a ball of energy, sending it into the air to light up the clearing.

And then he gets a good look at the man he hates more than anything in the known universe. It gives Stiles a jolt of vindictive glee to note that, somehow, he still looks old as shit.

Oh, and the image of him riddled with bullets helps a bit, too.

Stiles has to force himself not to twitch as Gerard Argent pushes his way through his cronies and pauses when he gets a good look at Stiles.

The old man gives him a wicked smile and chuckles. "So you're the one who sent my daughter to prison. Huh. I thought you'd be taller."


	14. Burn After Reading

Stiles spends the rest of his Wednesday sprawled across Peter's luxurious mattress.

Egyptian cotton sheets line the bed.

They talk. And talk.

Finger foods are eaten, a smattering of fruits and cheeses that Peter smuggles from the kitchen.

They spend hours just basking in each other's presence.

Peter and Stiles whisper like sneaky children, blankets pulled over their heads.

They lay nose to nose, shoulders vibrating silently and waiting for the other to break out into laughter first.

Stiles runs his hands through Peter's thick locks over and over, the man's head resting comfortably on his bare stomach.

They snark and they argue.

Countless kisses are given—mouths meeting and parting in a tender dance, shared breath becoming so deliciously hot.

Stiles traces the contours of Peter's handsome face, fingers ghosting over the ridges of the werewolf's brow.

They play a weirdly aggressive game of footsie.

Peter sighs, heart in his throat, at least a dozen times. Stiles catches each and every one, a goofy half-smile lifting his swollen lips.

At least for this Wednesday afternoon, they're content to just _be_.

And for a pair like Stiles and Peter, that's worth everything.

* * *

Stiles Stilinski is happy.

 _Happy._

It's been three weeks since his confrontation—sexy argument? shower escapade?—with Peter and a lot of shit has gone down.

 _A lot._

He's started texting with Chris. Every single day. Chris asks him questions about his studies, and Stiles tells him everything from getting his GED to his latest research binge on the Piasa Bird. Stiles asks Chris about his travels and his munitions business. They bond over a love of _Dr. Who_ and everything bagels. Kathy takes their lunch order at Tony's on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a knowing smile on her lips every time she delivers their food. They take walks through the park sometimes, shoulders brushing casually and fingers interlocking the moment they hit the wooded hiking trail. Chris' smile comes easier—becomes brighter—after every shared coffee and traipse through the forest.

Peter doesn't say anything when Stiles comes back to the house from one of his dates—and that's exactly what they are now, dates; Chris has even started calling them that, usually in a shy whisper into Stiles' ear about what they should do next time. Yeah, Peter doesn't say anything, but Stiles notices that if Chris kisses his left cheek, Peter caresses his right. He's trying to subtly show that he respects Stiles' relationship with Chris, that he respects Stiles' decisions. And that just makes the edges of Stiles' cracked heart start to mend.

Derek has him writing for a new comic about a children's party magician who finds an enchanted prop cane that bestows him with actual powers—powers, of course, that create constant and increasingly adorable mishaps. He also forces Stiles to play basketball with him in the driveway—each game always turns into a botched attempt at H-O-R-S-E.

Cal and Peter put Stiles through the wringer every day, pushing him to run faster and fight dirtier until he's finally able to last more than 30 seconds against Cora. What? She's fucking _nimble._ Stiles has no shame in admitting that she's the superior fighter—it's pretty pointless to hold onto pride after a nine-year-old grins down at your prone position, just waiting for you to finish wheezing.

He educates Laura and the younger pack members about other supernatural species and how to interact with them.

Stiles learns that he really doesn't like Darren, one of the in-laws, and that he shares that petty hatred with Nana Hale. They laugh about his baldness over several games of checkers on the back porch.

Oh, and Kate Argent gets arrested.

* * *

Stiles sends out his evidence against Kate Argent the day Peter runs away. He sends it to the Hunter's Council and the Were Guild, and apparently, both organizations have very close ties to law enforcement.

Stiles isn't sure whether or not he's comforted by that knowledge.

Like, if they have people who know all about life's little mysteries _and_ who have access to police records, why the fuck is _he_ the one doing all of the heavy lifting?

That question is going to be the main topic of the thesis-long customer service e-mail he's sending to each group. Like, for real, _what the fuck?_

Regardless of how willfully ignorant he thinks those organizations are, Stiles has to hand it to them, they sure are _fast_.

Kate's face is plastered across news tickers within a week.

The FBI tracks her down three days later while she's fleeing from a gas station in Arizona.

Stiles watches the live coverage of the ensuing car chase on CNN from the comfort of the Hale's living room, feet propped up on an ottoman and popcorn bag resting in his lap.

With his history of having to face down each Big Bad he's met—literally running for his life every time some monster wanders into town—to say that sitting back and watching other people do his dirty work is _surreal_ , is an understatement.

Stiles watches Kate spray bullets at a bunch of LEOs and takes a slurp of his Dr. Pepper.

Wiggling his tongue against a stray kernel stuck in his molar, he observes an agent fire a can of tear gas.

The sound of Mark doing laundry upstairs interrupts the _crack!_ of Kate's face hitting asphalt after she's tackled by three agents. Somehow, it makes it sweeter knowing that the asphalt that broke her fall was that of the McDonald's parking lot where she wrecked her getaway SUV.

This message from the higher-ups saying that they _know_ she's guilty—this whole manhunt, simply a choice of going to jail for life or dealing with a very different brand of justice (a.k.a. death)—God, just knowing that Kate will most likely confess to her "perfect" murders is the sweetest revenge of all.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he turns his head. Talia's standing there with a grim look and a proud sparkle in her eye. "You did a wonderful thing, Stiles. Our community may have just learned about it, but we aren't likely to forget." She squeezes his shoulder gently. "That, I can promise you."

Then she walks out of the den, leaving Stiles to finish off his popcorn.

* * *

In total, it's been a month since he sent in his rather macabre research, and Stiles Stilinski is stupidly happy.

He's currently walking up Chris' driveway and stops his pepped steps when he sees little Allison sitting on the porch stoop with her chin resting glumly in her hands.

"Hey, Allison!" He calls out to her, waving a bit hesitantly at her sad face.

"Hi, Stiles!" She yells back, perking up when she spots his smile.

"Whatcha doing out here all alone?"

Allison wrinkles her nose and huffs. "Mom and dad are fighting again. I just want to climb the rock pile at the park."

Stiles parks himself next to her on the top step. "I could take you if you want."

She turns a searching gaze on him, eyes going from calculating to thoughtful. "You'd do that?"

"Yeah, of course! Do you want me to go ask your dad? We were going to get lunch, but we could totally hang out instead." He side-eyes her. "Or together! We could all have lunch, or maybe—"

Cutting him off with an imperious wave of her hand, she smiles and says, "Thanks, Stiles. I'd like that."

He claps his hands and pushes himself up. "Alright, I'll be right back."

Stiles opens the door and shuts it quietly, wincing when he hears Victoria shouting.

"…you wanted to move only _two months ago_ , what changed? We need a fresh start, Kate's crimes are going to lay right at our…How can you say that? Everyone in town…Christopher, listen to yourself—!"

Stiles creeps closer to the bottom of the stairs. The landing above is empty, so they must be arguing in their bedroom.

Yeah, Stiles has no idea how to approach that.

Pulling out his phone, he flips it open and starts typing out a text. Before he can press _Send_ , he freezes.

"It's _him_ , isn't it?"

His heart stops and then starts galloping in his chest.

"…you can't do this, not for him—think of _us_ , of Allison! He's nothing but a slu—"

"That is _enough_ , Victoria!" Stiles startles backward at the sound of Chris' raised voice. He's never heard it before, not from this Chris— _his_ Chris.

There are hushed tones and then one of the doors flies open, Chris stomping out with cold eyes and heavy feet. When he spots Stiles standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, his face softens. "Stiles," he says, "you're early."

He blushes, looking away and scuffing his shoe against the ground. Stiles looks back at Chris, catching his knowing eyes, and replies, "No, I'm not. You're late."

Chris checks his phone and apologizes. "I'm so sorry, I've been…" he glances back up the stairs, "talking through some things with my wife."

Nodding, Stiles smiles half-heartedly. "Yeah, Allison said you guys were, um, talking." He scratches the back of his head. "She wants to go to the park, and I think you guys need some time alone. If you want, I could take her out for some lunch and some monkey bars—at least, just for a little while, I mean, if you think that's a good idea."

Victoria appears over the banister. "That sounds like a _wonderful_ idea, Stiles." She watches him with reptilian eyes. "Christopher and I were just discussing our move." The snake disappears back into their room.

Stiles swallows audibly, not meeting Chris' gaze. He nods once more and then walks to the exit. "I, uh, I guess we'll be back in a couple of hours." His shoulders hunch as he opens the door.

"Stiles."

He stills.

"Just…thank you," Chris whispers.

Tears are building in his eyes. He sniffs and then forces out a, "Don't mention it."

And then he ushers Allison into his Volkswagen, wondering when exactly Chris Argent burrowed his way into Stiles' heart.

* * *

Stiles is sitting on a bench.

Stiles is sitting on a bench clutching a hoagie and trying not to cry.

Crying in public places, especially places filled with a bunch of screaming children, isn't exactly on his bucket list.

So, he's trying not to. He's sitting and clutching, eyes only focusing every so often to make sure Allison is still fine playing with a couple of other kids.

Kids she's never met before, ones who don't go to her private school.

Kids, he might add, that happen to have strawberry-blonde hair and crooked jaws.

Christ, he doesn't need this right now.

Not exactly helping with the _not crying_ objective.

A body sits next to him, the woman's arms bending down to tie her shoe. Her perfume wafts over him, so achingly familiar.

"Are you alright, hon?"

Stiles looks over and croaks out a, "Yeah, my glucose is just kind of low right now." He waves a shaky hand. "I'm working on it."

She nods, her dark curls bobbing at the movement. "You just make sure you drink some water, too, you hear?" She glances at her watch. "Shoot! I need to get a wiggle on." She flashes him a kind smile and then walks away, shouting, "Scott!"

Stiles is still sitting on a bench.

He's sitting on a bench clutching a hoagie and he's _definitely_ crying.

* * *

"I'm not moving."

Stiles looks up from his seat atop the nemeton. Chris is standing over him, the light of the day fading a brilliant amber behind him.

"What?"

The man looks determined. "I'm not moving. Victoria and I…we're not doing very well right now," he chuckles. "It probably has something to do with the fact that we're finally being honest with each other."

Stiles' eyes widen. "You mean…?"

Chris nods, his eyes dark. "It's come to light pretty recently that Argents keeping secrets isn't really a good thing." He holds out a hand to Stiles. "We're talking through it. I'm not sure what's going to happen, but I do know I'm not leaving." Neither of them misses the _"you"_ implied at the end.

Stiles takes the offered hand and stands. He sidles closer, sliding his palms against Chris' firm chest. "How did you find me out here?" He murmurs.

"Peter told me."

Stiles chokes. He looks up at Chris, "You know—you know that he and I are…"

"I know." He sounds so calm.

Breath hitching, Stiles replies, "It was never a secret, I just, I didn't know how you would respond. He's known since the very beginning and I just kind of—ignored it? I'm sorry if—"

Chris growls and places his hands on Stiles'. "I've known ever since Jimmy Bouchard."

What.

 _Wait, what?_

"I don't—me and Peter weren't even together then!"

Chris smirks. "I've known Peter Hale since he was seven. I know what it looks like when he wants something." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "It was a little different with you, though." He brushes Stiles' hair off his forehead. "I've never seen him look at anyone quite like that." Chris chuckles a bit ruefully. "If I had to guess, I bet it's a bit like how I look at you."

"And just how do you look at me?" Stiles whispers, eyeing Chris' mouth.

"Like I'm falling in love with you."

Stiles' fingers spasm under Chris' grip. He drags them up and around the man's neck. "You're not leaving?"

"No," he breathes. "Not while you're here, not while you still want me."

"Goddamn you, Chris Argent." His lips crash into Chris', desperate and hungry. He yanks himself back, Chris chasing his mouth as he goes. "I fucking love you, too."


	15. Read the Terms and Conditions, Bitch

**From: teslawasrobbed .**

 **To: dannyb , hemingwayismydad , rosey34 , gunsrmyonlyfrnds , mrcrocker , hpatterson , agentorange , ninjavdinosaur**

 **Date: May 30, 2004, 1:48 AM**

To Whom It May Concern,

Hint: it concerns all of you.

But in all fairness, you rascally enablers you—you know who you are. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that you _enjoy_ being who you are. How disgusting.

Fun fact: I grew up in a household that respected the law, and more importantly, life.

And in case I haven't made it clear, Council, your "code" respects neither.

You don't know who I am, and unless I want you to, you never will. Just know, ruling members of the Council, that I'm watching you.

All of you.

Take a look at the news if you don't believe me.

Your era of casual indifference to violence and overt bigotry is coming to an end. If you feel the need to hold onto it in the name of "cultural heritage" and "legacy," I would urge you to reconsider.

After all, the following 327 pages outline the extensive, murderous network you and your organization have managed to build in the dark over the last 30 years.

Don't force me to drag you kicking and screaming into the light.

After all, I've only been at this for about 2 months.

I know you've received my previous e-mails regarding Kate Argent and have already passed judgment upon her.

Consider this yours.

Hint: you've been found wanting.

This e-mail address is open to you as a means of continuing our communication. I recommend you use it.

Supernatural beings are not the only creatures capable of becoming monsters.

I'd advise you to remember that.

Sincerely,

Your friendly neighborhood Spiderman

P.S. Some of you might want to think about changing your e-mail addresses. Like c'mon, let's be professional about this.

P.P.S. You owe me one.

 **Page 1 of 328**

 **[Excerpt taken from an e-mail sent from Stiles Stilinski to the Hunter's Council]**

* * *

 **From: teslawasrobbed .**

 **To: csiodmak , gwagg1941 , , universalpics , lchainsjr , wipeyourpaws**

 **Date: May 30, 2004, 1:52 AM**

Honorable Leaders of the Were Guild,

Pull your heads out of your collective asses.

Do better.

Here's a little something to help with that.

XOXO,

Gossip Girl

P.S. Don't even _try_ to get that reference. It's a little out of date.

P.P.S. You owe me one.

 **Page 1 of 328**

 **[Excerpt taken from an e-mail sent from Stiles Stilinski to the Were Guild]**

* * *

"So, this is where you spend all of your time lurking, huh?"

Peter glances over his shoulder at Stiles. "Did my sister tell you where to find me?"

Stiles snorts. "As if. Three peanut butter cookies are all it took for Cora to rat you out." He walks across the rickety wooden steps of the half-finished porch and takes a seat next to Peter. The light from the day has long faded, leaving only the stars to brighten the woods around them. He can see the lights from the Hale house in the distance.

Looking at Peter, Stiles can't help but notice his tense posture.

Stiles blinks away the fuzziness from his brain and wipes at his puffy lips—damn Chris and his vampiric tendencies—and he frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I see Chris followed my directions," Peter mutters bitterly.

He scoots closer to Peter. "Look at me."

Peter growls, a deep rumble resonating in his chest.

Stiles reaches a hand out, smoothing it down Peter's cheek. "Peter, look at me." He grabs ahold of the stubborn werewolf's chin and forces his head to turn.

Electric blue eyes meet his own.

"Oh, Peter," Stiles whispers.

A high-pitched whine fills the air.

Stiles scrambles over, straddling Peter's lap. He crushes their bodies together, chest-to-chest, and wraps Peter in his arms. Stiles buries his face in the crook of Peter's neck and hums, holding this man—this stupidly beautiful man—until Peter's breathing becomes even and his anxious rumbling stops.

After a while, strong, heavy arms wind around Stiles' back, holding him even closer.

There's a snuffle at his ear.

Stiles strokes fingers through Peter's thick hair, tracing along the ridge of Peter's pointed ear. "You're so handsome." He presses chaste kisses along Peter's jaw. "And so devastatingly intelligent."

A huff. "I think you might have those sayings mixed up."

"I think you're overthinking," Stiles murmurs.

Nothing but the constant buzz of cicadas can be heard.

"What did he say?" Peter asks, his face now human, but his eyes still glowing. "Chris. What did he say?"

Stiles runs his hands across Peter's shoulders and shifts in his lap. "Why? Why do you want to know?"

And Peter? Peter averts his gaze, throat slightly bared to Stiles. "Your scent…something's changed. I can't—" his steady voice wavers, "I thought we…"

Stiles shushes him.

"He loves me, Peter."

Peter's eyes burn through him.

"And I love him." Stiles rests his fingertips against Peter's temples. "But...can I show you something?"

Peter nods stiffly.

Magic sparks at his fingers and Stiles lets Peter see what he sees.

"Look at me," Stiles demands.

Peter's eyes widen.

"What do you see?"

Tightening his hands around Stiles' back, Peter answers, "Energy. It's so…beautiful." He reaches out and runs his hand along the bright tethers of light emanating from Stiles' chest. "The gold ones?"

Stiles smiles. "They're my connection to the pack."

Peter eyes the strand that's pulsating. "The purple one?"

"The nemeton."

Then Peter finally notices the bright blue connection—the one burning so hot that the core has turned white.

He waves a hand through that connection, the one that travels out miles and miles—endless in the night. "This one?"

"Chris," Stiles answers. "His turned whitish a couple of days ago."

Peter lifts an eyebrow. "They can change?"

"Of course they can. Relationships can always change."

Peter's eyes fade. "Where's mine?" he whispers.

Stiles laughs, long and loud. He giggles and he hiccups until Peter starts to look annoyed. "It's so _wonderful_ that you have this bright, _loving_ connection with Chris, but I'd like to know where I stand, too," Peter grits out.

"Peter, you're an idiot."

With a snarl curling his lips, Peter starts to argue—but then Stiles flicks him on the forehead.

"Look down."

Stiles moves his body backward from where it's been smooshed against Peter. When they separate, a brilliant tether—a blue so bright it's turned white—fills the gap between them.

Peter just stares.

If Stiles thought Peter was capable, he'd say the werewolf was gaping.

Jerking his head back up sharply, Peter gazes at Stiles' face in awe. "I'm an idiot," he whispers.

"I love you, Peter Hale," Stiles says steadily. "Even when you're an idiot, and for a lot longer than you'd guess."

* * *

Two days after the second greatest day of Chris Argent's life, his doorbell rings.

Victoria had left the night he'd ended their argument with his Big Gay Reveal.

Well, it was more of a Big Gay Scream?

They had both agreed that Allison should stay at the house—that she needs the stability—especially given that Kate's arrest happened only weeks before.

But tonight, Victoria has taken Allison out to the movies, and he's been alone in this empty house. A house that they had been trying to force into becoming a home for Allison's sake. But now that all of the illusions of marital bliss have been wiped away—now that duty and honor have been eclipsed by a love Chris had never dared to dream of—now that he's been broken down, Chris can finally decide how he builds himself back up.

And he's decided that he hates this fucking house.

 _Ding dong!_

He stalks to the door, heart pounding, because there's only one person who would ring his doorbell late on a Friday night.

Chris pulls open the door, happiness bubbling in the back of his throat—and then everything falls flat.

"Hale."

Peter just smirks at him. "Christopher."

He can hear the ghost of Stiles' snarkiness say, "Stiles."

"What do you want, Peter?"

The werewolf's smirk dims, and he looks over both of his shoulders. Peter takes a step forward. "Can I come inside?" He clenches a fist. "I think we need to talk."

* * *

There is chocolate dripping down his arm.

Correction: there _was_ chocolate dripping down his arm.

Don't worry, Stiles got it.

Derek, of course, laughed at him the entire time he was trying to juggle his waffle cone and the river of ice cream pooling in the palm of his hand.

But hey, he's had worse problems.

So here Stiles sits, on a stone bench topped with a jaunty umbrella, outside the best ice cream shack in Beacon Hills. He no longer has chocolate running down his arm, and Derek is no longer holding the napkins out of reach with his freakishly long Gumby arms. He has ice cream, the sun on his back, a friend at his side, two gorgeous men texting him, and a smile on his face.

Stiles no longer just _feels_ happy—it's slowly becoming his default setting.

Sure, he's still a sarcastic asshole with a mouth that actually _needs_ his magic to back it up. But now, most of his quips aren't said bitterly, or with a sense of "these will probably be your last words, so you better make them fucking _good_."

Stiles is happy.

So that's why, of course, this sunny Saturday in June decides to try and fuck it up.

Or rather, Derek's pointy elbow tries to.

"Ow!" Stiles yelps. "Watch where you're jabbing that thing!"

"Sorry," Derek says, not even looking at Stiles. "Just…you're Stiles Stilinski right?"

It takes every iota of Stiles' willpower to force his heart and his hands to remain steady. "What?" he chuckles. "Why do you ask?"

Derek uses his spoon to point into the distance. "That cop at the counter—the cashier called out 'Stilinski,' and he went up there." He looks lost. "Do you know him?"

Goddamnit, Dad.

Who'd've thought that Derek Hale's keen sense of observation and his dad's eating habits would be the beginning of his downfall?

It just goes to show—time travel may fix a lot, but it can't fix everything.

 _Fuck_.

Stiles comes back to himself, blinking slowly. "Don't."

Derek turns to face him, banana split forgotten. "Don't what?"

"Don't ask me that, Derek. Because I don't want to lie to you, I'd tell you the truth—and I'm not ready to do that yet." Stiles' eyes go unfocused again.

Derek looks at the deputy, and then back at Stiles. "Mom and Peter know you're hiding things," he snorts softly. "Never thought that I'd be the first one to shake you down and discover a lead."

"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, Sourwolf."

He scowls at that.

Stiles snatches Derek's wrist as he starts to poke at his sundae moodily. "You know _me_ , Derek—you know the person that I am. You just don't know everything I've done."

There must be some truth in that because Derek nods solemnly. "No shit. And you called _me_ Sherlock."

Stiles congratulates Derek's newfound understanding of assholery by putting him in a headlock and smearing his face with ice cream.

* * *

"So…is it more of a blood orgy under the full moon kind of gathering, or a round table and suits of armor kind?"

Talia doesn't look impressed, but Laura is trying to stifle a laugh near the doorway.

"What?" Stiles asks. "I was just _asking_."

"Our pack lands have been chosen as the location for this year's Gathering—a two-week conference and celebration regarding werewolf culture," Peter interjects. "In large part, we were chosen this year because some of the Were Guild members have let it slip to other pack alphas that the source of the Argent arrest came from us." He slides up behind Stiles and rests a possessive hand on his shoulder. "They've also let slip that they've been given further information that could result in more hunter's being held accountable." Stiles purrs, head lolling to the side as Peter's knuckles dig into his tense muscles. "It's not exactly common knowledge, but enough alphas have been made aware and now they're…curious."

"There have also been mentions of peace talks," Talia continues. "Alpha Deucalion has been a staunch supporter of peaceful coexistence, and with current events, the Hunter's Council has actually been reaching out." She looks thoughtful. "They could be sending out representatives, too."

"Let's hope they send someone without violent, psychopathic tendencies, then," Peter says.

Stiles is no longer giving any pretense of paying attention. He's arching into every push and dig from Peter's strong hands.

"Yeah," Cal agrees scornfully from his spot on the couch. "Let's hope."

* * *

"Do you think the flowers are too much?" Chris mutters.

"They're fine, Christopher, stop worrying." Peter straightens his suit jacket as opens the door for Chris to come inside.

Chris still looks uncharacteristically nervous.

"He'll love them," Peter adds. He even manages not to roll his eyes as he says it.

Clearing his throat, Chris nods and follows Peter up to the third floor of the Hale mansion. He's never been inside—never been around so many werewolves at once—so he can't quite be sure if the amount of staring is typical, or if it's a new development, one they've adopted just for him.

He's not sure which he finds more comforting.

Peter must sense his unease because his shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter.

Chris' fingers twitch for his gun.

When both men finally make it to the top floor, Peter leads them down the corridor to the farthest door. Loud alternative music is blaring from the other side of the door.

Peter knocks.

Chris refuses to fidget. Even though he really, _really_ wants to.

A loud, "Coming!" can be heard above the wailing guitars.

The door whips open, and then there's Stiles, just standing in the doorway, shirtless and in a pair of grey sweatpants.

Peter and Chris look their fill, gazes heating at the expanse of pale, toned skin being put on display.

Stiles looks winded.

Hell, he _is_ winded. Shouting along to Switchfoot will do that to a person. Also, looking at the way Chris and Peter are looking _at him_ , doesn't exactly help with the whole "breathing normally" situation.

Blushing, Stiles says, "Hi." His eyes ping pong between his two boyfriends.

"Hello," Peter lilts.

"Stiles," Chris growls, throat dry and voice scratchy.

Stiles follows Chris' stare down to his own chest and quickly slaps his hands over his nips. "I'm indecent, gentlemen."

Peter chuckles. "I have no objection," he glances at Chris. "However, the restaurant we picked out might."

Stiles heart skips a beat. "What?"

"We're here," Peter continues, voice low, "to ask you…"

"On a date," Chris finishes, holding out the bouquet of stargazer lilies. "With both of us."


	16. The Day That Wasn't

_June 18, 2004_

 _5:27 AM_

"I don't have a good feeling about this, boss," Lee Drummond complains, glancing around at his fellow packmates.

No one else seems leery.

No one else seems to feel as he feels.

Deucalion Blackwood looks over at his beta—his Second—and chuckles. After tossing the last duffel bag into his SUV, he slams the trunk closed. "You worry too much."

He walks around to where Lee is standing. "Relax, it's two days until Solstice. Tonight's going to be fine—the Guild's even backing our play." Deucalion claps a warm hand against Lee's shoulder and whistles for his betas to pile into their assigned cars. "Once it's over, we'll have made history—and then we'll celebrate under Mother Moon alongside our brothers and sisters at the Gathering. What more can we ask for?"

"It's just—"

Deuc shakes his head and tightens his grip. "Don't fight me over this, Lee. Not now. Not again." He lets go suddenly, opening up the passenger door and propping a booted foot onto the step. "Besides, we'll be on Hale land. Nothing bad has ever happened on Hale territory."

Lee hangs his head, baring his throat ever-so-slightly to his Alpha.

Deucalion's posture loosens. He gives his Second a sunny smile. "If only you could see things as I do—you'd be a much happier man, my friend." And with that, he slaps the roof twice and slides into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him.

"I hope you're right, Alpha," Lee mutters to himself. He scans the compound, ears perking up to listen as the town around them begins to wake.

He takes one last look at the rising sun.

"God, I hope you're right."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:45 AM_

"I'd find a way to get busy if I were you."

Peter looks up from his pacing. "Well, luckily for both of us, dear brother, you are very much _not_ me."

"There's no need to get nasty about it," Cal sighs, leaning against the wall across from Talia's office. "It is, after all, sound advice. Mark's handing out chores left and right."

"I know, I know," Peter whispers harshly. "It's not really you that I'm angry at, it's—"

"Yourself," Cal finishes, nodding.

"No, you idiot," Peter scowls. "Talia!"

Cal rolls his eyes and crosses scarred arms over his broad chest. "What's she done now?"

"Well, for one, she's got a serious stick of charred rowan up her ass about the Gathering. The first guests are set to arrive in about an hour, and she's locked herself in there," Peter gestures toward the office door, "so that she can freak out and call a bunch of caterers or—"

"I'm confused," Cal interrupts. "Stick, ass...you're talking like this _isn't_ normal for our sister." He strokes his chin in feigned contemplation. "We are talking about the same Talia, are we not?"

Peter graces him with a sharp grin. "Sometimes I forget how similar we are."

Cal shrugs.

Humming thoughtfully, Peter continues: "You're right, of course." He stops angrily pacing and slumps next to his brother. "It's that she's using all of this," Peter waves a careless claw in the air, "as an excuse to avoid talking to me—well, I suppose _fighting_ with me would be an apter description."

"Picking fights so close to the Solstice, Peter? What would father say?"

"Hopefully nothing," Peter mutters darkly. "Or, at least, if he tried to talk, the dirt from his grave would fall into his mouth and choke him until he died all over again."

Silence.

"That's fair."

"Hmmm…yes, I know. I've imagined his death many times." Peter's eyes refocus from his morbid imaginings. "But picking fights, as you put it? I wish." He clenches a fist. "No, Callahan, she started this one."

Cal raises a skeptical brow.

Peter smiles wickedly. "She just didn't think that I'd find out about it so soon." His eyes flash, the response unconscious and unbidden. Something inside him rises, hot with outrage. "She always did like to go for the back of the neck."

"So what did she do?"

Peter stifles a growl. "I found my name in the inter-pack registry."

Cal winces, hands dropping to his sides. "Shit."

"Shit, indeed." Peter pushes off the wall and scowls one last time at Talia's door. "She's just looking for an excuse, any excuse—I can feel it." He starts prowling down the hallway, but then pauses and looks back over his shoulder. "Better watch your own back, brother—our Alpha might just try and arrange a bride for you, too."

And then Peter's gone, silent as a shadow.

Cal lets his legs give out until he's sitting, well, _sprawled_ on the floor, his back against the wall.

He stares at the door, and then up at the ceiling.

"Shit."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _1:58 PM_

Deucalion breathes deeply as he steps out of the SUV, long arms stretching above his head as he unwinds his spine. "I've forgotten how long that drive is," he says.

"It's no wonder," Lee snarks as he exits the vehicle, "you slept most of the way here."

Deuc grins, teeth sharp.

Lee rolls his eyes and starts collecting their luggage from the back.

Maggie, another beta, wanders over to them from her car. "It really is beautiful, isn't it? I wish we had a preserve like this back home."

The three of them stop and look around—admiring the Hales' territory. Overhead, the sun shines and birds chirp. A faint breeze rustles the tall grass around them. A sprawling mansion can be seen in the distance.

Deucalion's concentration is broken by the sound of more cars—more packs—entering the clearing. He takes out a bag and then smiles at Maggie. "Tell the others that we'll make camp in the southeast corner."

She gives him a jaunty salute. "Yes Sir, Alpha Sir!"

"She should give you more respect," Lee criticizes as she walks back to the rest of the pack.

Deucalion snorts. "Like you do?"

Lee smiles faintly. "It's all a part of the job."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _2:14 PM_

"My father is in town."

Victoria doesn't even look up from her mixing bowl. "What does he want?"

"I didn't say that he told me about it," Chris clarifies.

Victoria pauses at that, knuckles turning white around the handle of her spatula. "Oh?"

Chris nods. "But I know he's in town. My contact within his circle told me that they're all here."

Directing her icy gaze at her husband, Victoria rips open a bag of chocolate chips. "Well. That certainly doesn't sound good."

"I don't like it, Vic. This close to the wolves' celebration…he's planning something." Chris takes a seat at the breakfast bar and stares her down, willing his wife to say something—to _do_ anything.

They both look up when they hear a loud _thump!_ followed by Allison's guilty laughter.

"We're taking a vacation," Victoria declares as she starts scooping out cookies onto a baking sheet.

Dread crawls up Chris' spine. "But, Victoria—"

"We're taking a _vacation_ ," Victoria repeats, authority coloring her words. She dismisses him by turning towards the oven. "Get Allison packed. We leave after I'm finished with these."

Chris is already walking up the stairs by the time she says it, conscience forcibly silent and feet as heavy as his heart.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _5:59 PM_

"No."

"No?"

"No," Talia repeats, spine stiff as she slips out of her full-wolf shift and into a silk robe. She looks lazily, as a predator is wont to do, around the abandoned distillery. "We already have a peace treaty with the hunters. We're not going to poke at that hornet's nest for the sake of your—what did you call it? oh, yes— _vision_."

Lee tenses a split second after Deucalion does.

"We could improve hunter-were relations! The Guild has fully endorsed my plans _and_ this meeting!" Deuc argues. "Your assistance, hell, just your _appearance_ , would give us a chance—"

Talia silences him with an imperious wave of her hand.

Laura shuffles closer to her mother's flank.

"I admire your tenacity and your project, but I must think of my pack first." Talia's eyes burn the deepest of reds. "We are busy preparing for the next two weeks, and quite frankly, I don't see you emerging from such a meeting victorious." She lifts a derisive lip. "I hear they are sending Gerard."

Deucalion searches Talia's face, looking for any sign of doubt.

For a glimpse of camaraderie.

He doesn't find one.

"There is nothing I can say to convince you to come and support my cause?"

"Consider the use of my land as sufficient support." Talia motions for Mark and Laura to follow her. "Though I still remain skeptical, I do wish you good luck, Alpha Blackwood. May Mother Moon shine down on your endeavors." She nods her head elegantly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, my betas and I have matters to attend to."

Lee remains silent as he and Deuc watch the Hales disappear into the trees.

"I guess it's up to us," Deucalion announces after a beat. He shakes his head, disappointed. "I guess it always was."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:04 PM_

"Can I spend the night tonight?" Scott whispers, small voice muffled even further by the blanket fort he's sitting in.

Stiles lifts the main flap and crawls into the middle. He sits criss-cross-applesauce and rests his bony chin in his cupped hands. "Is your dad being mean again?"

Scott looks away. "Mom tries to hide it…but, yeah. I hear them through my vent. He—," his brown eyes shine with unshed tears. "—he tried to hit her the other day, I don't…Stiles, I don't know what to do."

Scooting closer to his best friend, Stiles wraps his arms around Scott and squeezes tight. "It's okay, Scotty. We'll figure it out."

And speaking those words there, under the protection of that shoddy blanket fort—a promise lost amongst a sea of throw pillows and old sheets—gave both boys the courage to believe that it was true.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _11:12 PM_

His pack is dead.

 _Dead._

His vision is gone.

 _Gone._

And so is his eyesight.

Deucalion blinks bloody, sightless eyes.

He can feel the warmth radiating from Maggie's cooling body against his fingertips.

She'd jumped in front of the bullet meant for him.

He feels something warm trickle down his face.

Blood?

Sweat?

Tears?

Who cares?

No one. There's no one left to care.

Deucalion's pack is dead, his eyesight is gone, his hope for the future extinguished—and something fundamental snaps within.

An all-consuming rage whites out his mind and lights his nerves afire.

Flashbacks flicker against the dark amphitheater of his mind.

Gerard murdering his own men, gun firing rapidly and without hesitation.

A mask appearing on the hunter's face, wolfsbane gas diffusing rapidly from above.

More bullets fired, felling each member of his pack.

Choking on his own blood, wolfsbane burning his windpipe, as Gerard straddles his chest and pours a concentrated version of what's in his lungs into his eyes.

Screaming.

Mad ramblings about murdered brothers and vengeance, of monsters and men. Whispers of weak fools who sought peace, both human and wolf.

" _There can be no peace," Gerard had spat. "Not while your kind still lives."_

There can be no peace.

There can be no peace.

There can be no peace.

Those words dance across the dark halls of Deucalion's eyes.

He's picking himself up from the dirt floor of the distillery, limping towards the door, when he hears it.

The sound of claws extending.

The faint _whoosh!_ of a hand moving through the air.

Deucalion catches Lee's hand before it can rip through the fragile skin at this throat.

"You led us here!" Lee screams, agony in every word. "Look at what you've done!"

Deuc blinks.

"You don't deserve to be Alpha!" Lee growls, eyes glowing gold. He roars as Deucalion crushes his wrist.

He quiets as Deucalion snaps his neck.

"There can be no peace."

And then a spark from his beta enters his heart, and Deucalion welcomes the burn.


	17. The Day That Was

_June 18, 2004_

 _5:27 AM_

"I've got a good feeling about this year's Gathering, boss," Lee Drummond says as he taps the steering wheel. "With everything that's come out this year? And all of the other packs chomping at the bit? We've got a lot of leverage going into those peace talks."

Deucalion Blackwood looks over at his beta—his Second—and smiles.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:45 AM_

"No, sweetheart, that's not how my dick works."

Stiles pouts at Peter and squirms in his lap. "Are you sure?"

Peter sighs and sets down his coffee on the side table. He leans back against the outdoor sofa, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. "I'd know if I were able to do that. Trust me."

Stiles grins, unrepentant, and buries his face in Peter's neck. "So what are we doing today?"

"You're doing absolutely nothing. I know that you've been dealing with Rhys the last three days because of some sort of honey-hoarding dispute. Talia has even forbidden you from contributing to the chore list."

Stiles snorts. " _Forbidden_ me?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, dear, but you smell," Peter breathes in deeply, "absolutely _exhausted_."

Stiles' eyes close, and he tilts his face into the sun. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh…" Peter shifts slightly, a pause noticeable in his speech.

"What?" Stiles asks curiously.

"Nothing, nothing," Peter continues, voice light. "I just think that you should go to bed, get some sleep." He trails a careless finger up and down Stiles' shoulder. "Tonight's an important night."

Stiles scrunches up his brow, confused. "I thought the Solstice didn't start until Sunday?"

"You're right," Peter murmurs. "But, this time, will you trust _me_? If I ask you to go rest, and I tell you tonight is important—will you trust me, will you do as I ask?"

Opening his eyes slowly, Stiles meets Peter's burning gaze.

"Of course."

And then his lips softly meet Peter's.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _1:58 PM_

Deucalion breathes deeply as he steps out of the SUV, long arms stretching above his head as he unwinds his spine. "I've forgotten how long that drive is," he says.

"It's no wonder," Lee snarks as he exits the vehicle, "you slept most of the way here."

Deuc grins at his Second's sass.

Lee rolls his eyes and starts collecting their luggage from the back.

Maggie, another beta, wanders over to them from her car. "It really is beautiful, isn't it? I wish we had a preserve like this back home."

The three of them stop and look around—admiring the Hales' territory. Overhead, the sun shines and birds chirp. A faint breeze rustles the tall grass around them. A sprawling mansion can be seen in the distance.

Deucalion's concentration is broken by the sound of more cars—more packs—entering the clearing. He takes out a bag and then smiles at Maggie. "Tell the others that we'll make camp in the southeast corner."

She gives him a jaunty salute. "Yes Sir, Alpha Sir!"

"She should give you more respect," Lee criticizes as she walks back to the rest of the pack.

Deucalion snorts. "Like you do?"

Lee smiles, content. "It's all a part of the job."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _2:14 PM_

Chris is freaking out.

Chris is standing in the middle of a Pots'N'Stuff, surrounded by plants and dirt and flowers, and he's freaking the fuck out.

He's never been on a first date.

It was always sneaking out behind his father's back.

Or being told he was arranged to marry a woman from another clan.

He's almost thirty years old, and he's never been on a first date.

His phone is at his ear before he can register that he's dialed a number.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end purrs.

"Peter,"—shit, Chris can't believe he's saying this—"I need your help."

"Hmmm, getting cold feet are we?"

"No!" Chris defends, jumping back as an employee tries to spritz water on a plant next to him. He stalks over to another aisle and clenches a fist. "I just…what kind of flowers does Stiles like?"

Silence.

"If I can recall correctly, I think he's mentioned lilies. Stargazer lilies."

His shoulders unwind.

Stargazer lilies. He can get those.

Chris clears his throat a bit awkwardly. "Are we still on for 5:30, then?"

Peter laughs sensuously. "This is going to be amazing." And then he hangs up.

Chris takes a few moments for himself, breathing evenly until he can finally focus on the mission at hand.

Stargazer lilies.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _5:59 PM_

"We're here," Peter continues, voice low, "to ask you…"

"On a date," Chris finishes, holding out the bouquet of stargazer lilies. "With both of us."

Stiles stands, hands covering his nipples and mouth softly gaping open. "A date?" he whispers.

"With the both of us," Peter adds. "We've talked it over, and we want to make this work."

Slowly lowering his hands, Stiles feels tears well in his eyes. "God, you two are so amazing it's _stupid_!" He carefully lifts Chris' proffered flowers and takes a hesitant sniff.

Stiles turns adoring eyes on Chris. "These are beautiful."

Chris' face blushes. "Not as beautiful as yo—"

He's cut off as Stiles crashes his lips against Chris'.

When Stiles pulls back with a wet smack and a huge grin, Chris can't help but follow his lips. After a few more lazy kisses, they part.

"That was rather hot," Peter murmurs, eyes heavy.

Stiles smooths out his hair and takes a step back. He sets the flowers on Derek's desk and practically sprints over to the closet. "Just—uh, give me a second to change. You can sit…" Stiles scrambles over to the rolling chair and clears off a bunch of research. "…here, or, uh stand—"

He runs back to his closet and shucks off his pants.

He doesn't realize what he's doing until he's about to step into a pair of new underwear.

Stiles looks over his shoulder and finds both Peter and Chris leaning against the bunk, eyes firmly fixed on his ass.

"Don't mind us," Peter waves a hand. "Do continue."

"Please," Chris groans. "Feel free."

Stiles turns back around, hiding his pleased smile as he buttons up his pants.

"So where are we going?" he asks as he shrugs on a shirt.

Strong hands catch Stiles' hips, turning him until he comes face-to-face with Chris.

"I couldn't resist," Chris whispers, hands tightening around Stiles' slim waist. Chris' deft fingers steadily finish buttoning Stiles' shirt. "And to answer your question," he continues, "it's a surprise."

And as it turns out, it is.

Chris and Peter drive him out to Tony's.

Stiles cries in the parking lot.

When he finally works up the nerve to enter with his dates, Stiles' heart feels free.

They sit in a booth. Chris lounges across from Stiles, and Peter sidles in next to him.

Stiles orders banana pancakes with blueberry syrup.

Peter tries to eat half of his order.

Chris offers Stiles some of his onion rings to make up for it.

All three of them laugh and avoid talking about Very Serious Things.

Stiles tells them his favorite color is red.

Peter tells them he doesn't like the sound of squeaky erasers on paper.

Chris tells them that he thought Santa Claus was real until he was 14 because, why not? Everything else was real.

They all laugh extra hard at that.

It's the most mundane first date in the history of first dates. At least, it's the most mundane first date a trio like them could ask for.

And that's what makes it perfect.

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _8:04 PM_

Stiles doesn't really remember where he—his little, past self—is at this particular time on this particular day, and he doesn't much care.

Chris has his arm wrapped around his shoulder and Peter has his arm wrapped around his waist; he's the filling in a dreamboat sandwich, and he's _not_ going to complain about it.

They're all walking up the Hales' driveway, buzzing off of the energy from their date. As they reach the porch steps, a lilting British voice calls out, "Excuse me?"

Peter tenses.

Chris reaches for his gun.

Stiles whips around, fingertips sparking. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Alpha Blackwood, Deucalion to my friends and colleagues," the man says. "I was about to return to my pack's camp when I saw you walk by. From the description I was given, am I correct in assuming that you are Stiles Gajos, emissary to the Hale pack?"

Stiles nods hesitantly, noting that Peter still hasn't retracted his claws.

Deucalion holds out a hand. "I'd just like to thank you personally for what you've done for our community. Because of you, both the Council and the Were Guild have sent representatives to construct nationally recognized peace treaties during this year's Gathering. I was just in there discussing it with your Alpha."

"You're welcome," Stiles says, still rather taken aback.

Deucalion tips his head down respectfully. "I had thought I was alone in my endeavor—you've helped me realize that I am not." He releases Stiles' hand and backs away slowly. Eyeing Chris and Peter, he leaves them with a, "Have a good evening, gentlemen."

Nothing but the forest's cicadas can be heard for a moment.

Stiles coughs into a fist. "Well…that was fucking weird."

* * *

 _June 18, 2004_

 _11:12 PM_

Stiles flops onto his mattress, a happy sigh escaping his parted lips.

"Quiet down up there, will you," Derek grumps as he bangs a fist against the top bunk. "Some of us have shitty Solstice chores to do tomorrow."

"Sorry," Stiles replies, not very sorry at all. "I just had an amazing day."

"I know, I know. You don't have to brag."

Stiles rolls over and leans down until he's peering at Derek's grumpy face. "Yes, I _really_ do." He wiggles back onto his bed and puts his hands behind his head. "It was our first date."

There's a pause. "Really?"

"Really, really."

"…I'm happy for you Stiles," Derek whispers. "You deserve nice dates and flowers."

"Oh!" Stiles exclaims. "Thanks for putting them in a vase, I, um forgot."

More like Chris' hands made him forget.

"No problem," Derek yawns. "I'm glad you guys are working things out."

Stiles grins in the darkness.

"But, Stiles?"

"Hmmm?"

"Don't ever have sex with them on my bed."

Stiles cackles into his pillow.


	18. I Got Soul, But I'm Not a Soldier

"—and now let's move on to this meeting's final topic. As we have discussed earlier in the week, we've been bestowed an unprecedented amount of luck these past few months thanks to…"

Stiles tunes out Alpha Ito, stilling in his seat as a large, warm hand snakes its way under the table and up his thigh.

 _Oh fuck._

Gritting his teeth, Stiles quickly masks his scent and schools his expression. He does it just in time, too, because that skillful hand now has a nice, firm grip on his cock.

Stiles closes his eyes briefly, torn between trying to pray the hand away and begging it to stroke him harder.

He turns his head slowly to the left, opening his eyes just wide enough to see Peter lounging in the seat next to him, a mildly interested gaze masking just how smug and horny Stiles knows he is right now.

Stiles can't really blame him. It's been almost two weeks straight of boring-as-shit meetings.

Stiles was only required to attend the Were Guild meetings that involved his investigation, but he had wanted to go to all of them. He thought it'd be a really great learning experience, a way to understand the intricacy of pack politics.

He knows better now.

Everything from intra-pack politics to water rights disputes had its own meeting.

Drawing up new pack land boundaries? Meeting. Someone wants to add vegetarian options to the Gathering's meal plans? Meeting. Adoption policies for feral children? Meeting. What colors to decorate with for the Winter Solstice? Another fucking meeting.

About _color schemes_.

Stiles finally understands why Talia had decided not to give him any extra chores. Anything on top of all of this would've been torture.

He's spent four whole days sitting in the middle of the Hale's abandoned barn—which, funnily enough, isn't actually abandoned at all. The inside is outfitted with a huge fucking dining table (for the Alphas) that's surrounded by rows and rows of bleachers (for their selected representatives).

Talia grimaced when Stiles dubbed it Thunderdome.

It's been four whole days in a barn with a bunch of nosy, territorial alphas who questioned every aspect of his involvement with the Argent investigation. They even printed out copies of the report he had e-mailed them and went through each page, asking him to clarify or go into greater detail every five minutes.

Needless to say, by day three, Stiles had nearly killed a bunch of werewolves in a barn.

So here he sits, on the fourth and final day of the Gathering's meetings about the investigation, listening to Alpha Ito commend him for his hard work, and trying not to fidget as Peter _commends him for his hard work_.

This isn't exactly how he had pictured thanking Talia for letting them sit with the Big Bad Alphas at the table instead of up in the nosebleed section with the rest of the plebs.

"I hate you," Stiles whispers in Peter's ear. "I hate you so much right now."

The hand starts stroking him faster, harder. "No you don't, baby. In fact, by the looks of it, you _love me_ right now."

"I'm going to fu—"

"Did you say something, Emissary Gajos?"

Stiles jerks his gaze up, meeting Alpha Ito's impenetrable stare. "No, no—I was just commenting on how thankful I am that we're all here today." He zaps Peter under the table, forcing him to stop jacking his dick.

Ugh, _propriety_.

She squints but nods in agreement. "I, too, understand that sentiment." She stands up from her seat and looks between the gathered alphas. "We're all here, alive and well—and _prepared_ because of this brave young man here."

Alpha Ito locks her eyes back on Stiles, and he can't help but gulp at the glimmer in her eye that he spots. "I for one," the alpha continues, face emotionless, "am going to take his advice, and _get my head out of my ass_."

Holy shit.

 _Holy shit._

Stiles can't breathe.

Talia's shoulders straighten and Stiles feels Peter's muscles tense.

The entire barn, which had been filled with thundering snarls and heated growls for the last two weeks, goes completely silent.

And then Deucalion throws his head back and _laughs_.

He laughs and he laughs, gasping for breath in between gales of deep, guttural guffaws. Deucalion laughs so hard that he ends up slouched in his chair, as if his body is about to roll onto the floor on the strength of his giggles alone. He calms himself down just enough to wipe tears from his eyes and snicker out, "I second the motion."

And then the rest of the alphas start laughing, too.

* * *

Stiles' meeting with the Hunter's Council goes a little differently.

Specifically, he shows up in the dead of night to the little RV park that they've set up in their allotted space on the very edge of the Hale's land and drags all of them out of bed by their ankles.

Startled screams fill the air as strong, healthy roots drag each hunter to the middle of the camp. More screams join theirs as the hunters running in from patrol get wrapped up, too.

Stiles stands in the middle of a dozen hunter officials, arms crossed and patiently waiting out their—admittedly justified—terror.

It takes about ten minutes.

When they finally get ahold of themselves, Stiles takes a seat in the dirt and steeples his fingers. "Hello."

They all stare at him like he's crazy.

Maybe he is.

Just a little.

A man finally chokes up enough courage to respond bitterly, "Is this what you consider good faith?"

Stiles grins sardonically. "And because you guys have so much of that?"

That gets no response.

His grin grows wider. "I take it you've deduced who I am?"

A woman to his left nods shakily. "You're the emissary who sent us the e-mail. The one who sent Kate Argent to prison."

Stiles nods. "Spot on!" He claps his hands together and then splays his palms outward. "Now I know that you all have been drawing up new contracts and peace treaties with the packs these last couple of weeks—and from what I've heard, they've gone really well. I want you to know that I'm impressed. Truly."

The bound hunters look at him warily.

Stiles' grin deadens. "But I just wanted to reiterate something while I have you all here. You know what I can do with a computer and some coffee—that sent one of you to prison for life." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "I just wanted you to really understand that I _chose_ to do it that way. I did it _legally_."

Stiles sees some of the hunters start to pick up what he's putting down. He settles his hands calmly on his knees. "But I want to let you know that I'm not averse to other, more _illegal_ methods to taking you down if you decide to kill indiscriminately." Stiles feels the nemeton hum in agreement. He hears Otis caw obnoxiously overhead.

"I am not a violent man—" Stiles says quietly as he stands. He brushes off his pants and whispers for the nemeton to let them go. Roots slowly unwind and slither back underground. He gives them all one final look. "So don't make me become one."

He gives them all a respectful bow and a genuine smile. "Now enjoy the rest of your night, and have a safe drive back to your homes."

And then with Otis' talons latching onto his shoulder, a quick hiss of Greek, and a snap of his fingers—Stiles disappears into the night.

* * *

He reappears in front of the nemeton.

Stiles looks up at the giant tree towering over him, its bark glowing faintly under the moonlight. Powerful limbs sprawl out from its base in all directions. Its black leaves rustle in the breeze.

He walks forward slowly and places a hand against the trunk. He can feel it reach out to him, feel its soothing, positive energy.

It's so different from what it once was.

Everything is.

"CAW!"

Stiles turns his head to the side, reaching up to pet Otis' silky feathers. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Change is inherent to living. It's just—" his words stutter out of him. "It's just really hard sometimes, buddy. I think it'll always be hard, these _sometimes_ —but I think…I think it's okay that it is."

"Caw," Otis croaks out, quieter than Stiles has ever heard it. Otis brushes a gentle wing against Stiles' cheek, wiping away the tears that had been silently falling.

Stiles chokes out a laugh. "Thanks." He pets Otis' head some more. "So is this where you ditch me? Now that you're all healed up."

Otis nips him in the throat.

"Ouch!" Stiles yelps. "Okay, okay! Sorry! I just figured, y'know, that your interest in me is over now that you've gotten what you want."

Otis gives him the bitchiest look a bird can give.

"Oh, come on! Give me a little credit. I did the reading! Usually, spiritual manifestations dissipate after their task is complete. And I've been tracking how close your energy gets to mine. They've been growing closer in steady increments for months, but it's stopped." Stiles focuses on the purple thread of energy thrumming between him and the nemeton and then lets it go. He shrugs. "I just assumed that we were coming up on when you wanted our connection to end."

Otis tilts its head at Stiles and stares.

Stiles stares back.

He and a magical, impossible bird share a moment under the branches of an ancient tree and the light of the full moon.

This is his life now.

"Hey!" Stiles yelps as Otis knocks him down onto the forest floor. "What are you doing?"

Otis hops up onto Stiles' chest, the position eerily similar to the first time they met. "CAW!"

Stiles' brow furrows. "Hold still? What are you—"

And then with a flash of violet light, Otis is gone.

It takes Stiles a moment to comprehend what just happened. When he does, he lets his head thunk back down onto the dirt.

He's not embarrassed about the fresh tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He's not.

Otis was his friend in a time when he had nothing. It's okay to be sad. It is. It's just...

That _fucking_ bird.

Stiles lays on the ground and sniffles, knowing that he still—

He feels something brush against his chest and brushes a hand at it mindlessly.

It happens again.

It takes a second for Stiles to realize that what he's feeling is _under_ his shirt.

"Holy shit!" Stiles exclaims, jackknifing upward and frantically feeling up his chest.

There's nothing there, but he can still feel something moving. It isn't an unpleasant sensation, but it is fucking _alarming_. Stiles' mind spins, trying to figure out just what the hell is happening—and then he feels it.

His power and the nemeton's—they're no longer running side by side. They're intertwined.

They're one and the same.

 _Holy shit._

Stiles remembers back to his first meeting with Otis, how he'd been so sure at first glance that Otis was meant to be—

"Holy fucking shit," Stiles whispers, staring down and his hands before tentatively snapping his fingers once more.

In the blink of an eye, Stiles transports himself into his bathroom. He locks the door and flicks on the light.

Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, meeting his own wild-eyed gaze in a daze. He counts to three and then shucks off his shirt.

"Oh, you absolute _bastard_ ," Stiles scolds. "You had me thinking you turned into cosmic dust or something!" He pokes at his chest. "Goddamn you, Otis!"

Then Stiles takes a good long look, because in the center of his chest—right where Otis had last perched only minutes before—rests that _fucking_ bird.

Otis ruffles his feathers smugly, and Stiles can _feel_ it. He watches as Otis flies in lazy loops across Stiles' body, each detail of the pest he hates to love perfectly clear against Stiles' pale skin.

Stiles leans forward, stretching his arms out and leaning his head against the counter. "You don't have to be so proud of yourself," he groans. He rolls his eyes in the mirror for that damn bird to see.

Then his earlier epiphany hits him, and Stiles perks right up. He grins, wide and slow. "But you know what this means, right? Cementing our bond? Binding yourself to me? It means I was right." Otis pauses in its gloating. Stiles' grin is Cheshire-cat cruel. "You _are_ my familiar! You wanted to be my familiar the _entire time!_ "

Stiles starts whooping, spinning around joyfully and hugging himself. He pokes the bird, who's refusing to meet Stiles' happy gaze.

"Just admit it, you curmudgeonly asshole! You like me—no, no—you _love_ me! Go on, admit it!"

Stiles finds out that even though Otis is now 2-D, he still packs a mean peck.

"Worth it!" Stiles shouts in victory, opening the bathroom door and racing down the hallway. "Fucking _worth it!_ "

* * *

"So are you excited for the fireworks tonight?" Cal asks lazily, pacing back and forth while he waits for Stiles to answer.

It takes Stiles a minute, on account of the fact that Cal just body-slammed him into the dirt and Stiles can't _breathe_.

"—sure," he finally wheezes out, rolling onto his hands and knees. He coughs and straightens himself up, getting back into a fighting stance. "I've always been a fan of things that explode."

Cal nods, not surprised _at all_ by that revelation.

Stiles feints right, then left, and then takes a jab at Cal's solar plexus. "But what about you guys?" He ducks under Cal's meaty fist and dances backward. "Isn't it kind of shitty with the whole…" Stiles waves a taped hand at his ear.

Cal shrugs, then charges forward, vaulting through the air and wrapping Stiles in his thighs. "Loud noises aren't bad when we know they're about to go off. It takes some practice to hear around it, but then, so does everything." He wraps an elbow around Stiles' throat. "And besides, the kids love it. Can't do the Fourth of July without fireworks."

"How freakishly patriotic of you," Stiles gurgles out before he taps repeatedly at Cal's stupidly hard bicep.

Cal immediately lets him go, holding out a hand to help Stiles stagger to his feet.

Stiles bends over and pants softly, flashing the big guy a grateful smile when Cal passes him a cold bottle of water.

They both stand there in silence as they drink.

"Thank you."

Stiles spits out his mouthful of water. "I'm sorry, come again?"

Cal looks at him, gaze strangely intense. "I've never said it, and you deserve it. Thank you, Stiles. I'm not quite sure you understand the entirety of what you've done for us."

Oh, Stiles knows. "The invest—"

Cal waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not even talking about the investigation—although, that's another good point. I'm talking about our pack. You've helped us become safer, but you've also helped us grow." Cal smiles softly. "You play checkers with Nana and you teach the pups about magic. You helped our land become healthy, and God-knows-what you're brewing in that old garden shed, but it's made the garden thrive." Cal walks over to Stiles and rests a scarred hand on his shoulder. "What you've done for Peter."

Stiles raises his eyebrows skeptically.

Cal lets out a humorless laugh and then lowers himself to the ground. "You don't even know what you helped us avoid, and I'll be forever grateful."

Stiles sits down next to him. "I, uh, understand the first part of what you said, but I'm not sure what you mean by Peter. I…" Stiles blushes and looks away. "I just love him. It's not super complicated."

"Did you know that you were the first?"

Stiles whips his head around and scoffs. "Yeah, I don't believe that."

It's Cal's turn to raise a brow. "Our birthright offers us a lot of privileges, Stiles, in both the mundane and supernatural worlds alike." He sighs. "My brother is rich, smart, handsome, and powerful. And people have loved him—but only for those things, only for what he could offer them." Cal lays down in the grass. "You're the first outsider that's ever been openly hostile to him. The first that's ever challenged him. The first to teach him something." He rolls his head to the side and looks up at Stiles. "I'll put it this way: it's my job to fight, and when I first saw the way my brother looked at you, I thought I was going to have to. But then you turned out to be a miracle wrapped in an enigma, and my little brother—the one who sticks to the shadows—decided it was time to take a step out of the darkness and fall in love."

He sighs. "You did that. You brought him out of a dark place—one that I was afraid would soon be causing conflict between him and Talia."

Stiles is curious about what he means by that, but feels too much like Cal has body-slammed him all over again to ask any questions. "Well, shit, Cal. Tell me how you really feel."

Cal rolls his eyes and then sits up. He wraps Stiles in a bear hug and says, "I am. You did something amazing for my family, Stiles—even if you don't see it. Just know that I do. So, thank you."

Stiles winds his hands around Cal and hugs him back.

He gives really great hugs.

"But hurt him and I'll rip your arms off. That sociopath is still my baby bro."

Stiles laughs wetly into Cal's sweaty shirt. "Deal."

* * *

"We're…" _gasp! smack!_ "…missing the fireworks, darling."

Stiles moans against Peter's mouth. "I don't care." And he doesn't. His conversation with Cal has been percolating in his brain the entire afternoon, and as soon as Peter had gotten back from patrol, Stiles had pounced on him.

Stiles drags his hands down Peter's back and tucks them down the waistband of his jeans, cupping Peter's ass and pulling him even closer.

They grind together like that, with Stiles perched on Peter's desk and Peter standing between his thighs.

Stiles sucks on Peter's bottom lip, digging his teeth in before pressing gentle kisses along the man's neck. Peter arches into it, practically purring when Stiles laves at a particular spot on his jaw.

Peter wraps a hand around Stiles' knee, slowly lifting his leg until their groins are _finally_ in perfect alignment. Stiles moans even louder as Peter begins to thrust in earnest, his cock rutting eagerly against Stiles' own.

They're so lost in one another that neither of them hears Peter's door open and close.

"Well isn't that a pretty sight?"

Stiles' dick jerks at the sound of that low voice, and he whimpers into Peter's mouth when he feels a work-roughened hand slide under his shirt.

Stiles barely opens his eyes as Peter breaks their kiss.

Strong fingers grip his chin and force his head to the side. He doesn't even have time to say a breathy hello before Chris leans down and drags him into a heated kiss.

With Peter still slowly grinding against him and Chris pressed along his side, Stiles feels totally and completely and _sinfully_ good.

It's been like this for the past week. Their group dates have turned into group dates with benefits. These slow, exploratory heavy-petting sessions have been all that Stiles has been able to think about. He daydreams about their hands all over him, their mouths worshiping him. He's taken a lot of cold showers recently.

 _A lot_.

And, strangely enough, it's all been so fucking _easy_.

He never feels uncomfortable or awkward—he just feels safe.

Stiles is sure that in time, when they finally make it to having penetrative sex or threesomes or whatever—sure, he'll feel awkward.

It's a lot of body parts to maneuver, after all.

But it won't be a shameful sort of awkward, the kind that makes him look away in embarrassment.

No, it won't be like that. It'll be that wonderful sort of awkward—the kind that makes him blush and fidget and _laugh_.

Because being with them, however impossible their circumstances may be, has been the easiest choice Stiles has ever made. And he keeps choosing them again and again.

He'd definitely choose Chris' tongue over fireworks any fucking day _, goddamn_.

"Chris!" he gasps out, pulling away just enough to allow a clear thought to enter his head. "Chris," he repeats. He squeezes his legs. "Peter."

Both men run their hands up and down his body, waiting for him to tell them what he wants.

"Take me to bed," he whispers. "Please."

* * *

"So I missed you at the fireworks last night," Derek says sassily from his spot on the couch. He and Stiles are having a movie night/sleepover, and Stiles still can't get over that sleepovers are a thing he and Derek Hale do together.

"Hmmm…" Stiles replies. "Really? Could've sworn I was there."

Derek kicks Stiles' foot. "Nope. You were noticeably absent, given that you were supposed to be the guest of honor."

Stiles refuses to blush. "If you must know, my boyfriends and I had a quiet night in. It's been a long couple of weeks and I was tired."

"Uh-huh," Derek snorts, the bratty bastard. He crooks two fingers on each hand for emphasis as he repeats, "'Quiet.' Sure, I believe you."

Stiles tosses a pillow at him. "Get out of here with your sassy quotations. Do you actually want me to go into detail about my sex life with your uncle? Because that's what it sounds like to me."

Derek pales. "Lesson learned, Stiles. I will never joke about it again." He shudders. "You're really good at turning things around on me. I hate it."

Stiles grins, victorious. "I know."

Derek launches himself across the couch, catching Stiles by the ankle as he tries to scramble away. "Help, help, I'm being repressed!"

"Shut up, Stiles! You knew what would happen if you grossed me out like that again! I warned you—" Derek gives him a funny look. "Hey, wait—are you okay?"

Stiles has stilled underneath him, eyes distant. Sitting up slowly, Stiles looks at Derek seriously. "Derek, I need you to go tell your mom and Cal that someone with malicious intent has entered the northwestern territory."

Derek nods, jumping up. "What are you going to do?"

Stiles shuffles over to the front door and starts stuffing his feet into a pair of tennis shoes. They're a little big and—yep those are definitely women's shoes.

Laura.

Goddamn, the girl has big-ass feet.

Stiles looks back at Derek, who looks so young, but so determined. "Tell your mom that I'm engaging the Benedict Arnold protocol. Got it?"

Derek nods. "Benedict Arnold. Right. Okay." He runs forward and hugs Stiles. "Be safe, alright?" And then he sprints across the hall to the other side of the mansion.

Stiles shoots off texts to Peter and Chris, giving them each the coordinates of his destination. He pats at Otis, who's fluttering against his chest.

"That really didn't take long, did it, buddy?"

Stiles hears an amused _Caw!_ echo in his mind.

"Well here goes nothing."

Stiles snaps his fingers.

* * *

Stiles ends up, once again, in the preserve. The intruders aren't even that far off from where the nemeton is hidden.

Stiles considers the implication of what that means.

 _That evil bastard knew about it the whole time, didn't he? He just hadn't found it until...well, until he found it._

Stiles moves silently across the forest, leaning up against a tree as he watches a small group of camouflaged hunters creep around in the dark.

One of them stumbles into a briar-patch and Stiles has to cover his mouth so a laugh doesn't escape.

He waits another ten minutes before revealing himself because he swore to Talia that he'd give them time to actually show up.

"A bit late for an evening stroll, isn't it fellas?"

They all whip around to face him. Or, they try to. Stiles is currently invisible.

Yeah, _invisible_. Not just a glamour like the one he pulled off on his Harris Heist.

A nemeton sure brings one hell of a power-boost to the table.

Stiles toys with them for a few more minutes, making scary shrieking sounds and snapping twigs. It's absolutely hilarious. He only stops when he gets confirmation texts from Laura, Peter, and Chris about their respective ETAs.

It's so stupidly efficient that Stiles kind of wants to cry.

Stiles senses an SUV coming in hot a few miles out, so Stiles reveals himself. He instantly has several guns cocked and aimed in his direction. He smiles and conjures a ball of energy, sending it into the air to light up the clearing.

And then he gets a good look at the man he hates more than anything in the known universe. It gives Stiles a jolt of vindictive glee to note that, somehow, he still looks old as shit.

Oh, and the image of him riddled with bullets helps a bit, too.

Stiles has to force himself not to twitch as Gerard Argent pushes his way through his cronies and pauses when he gets a good look at Stiles.

The old man gives him a wicked smile and chuckles. "So you're the one who sent my daughter to prison. Huh. I thought you'd be taller."


	19. Nous Chassons Ceux Qui Nous Chassent

_"Gerard, don't do it," Stiles warns. "Don't." But there's no arguing with madness. Gerard may have been power-hungry before, but the cold logic is now absent from his eyes._

 _He's drunk from the nemeton's power, Stiles realizes._

 _It leaves him feeling cold._

 _He meets his dad's eyes. They're warm, so warm._

" _Stiles, son, I love you."_

" _Dad."_

 _Gerard sneers, "How sweet."_

 _And then the Sheriff explodes upward, elbowing Gerard in the gut and trying to wrestle the gun away._

 _A shot goes off._

Stiles shakes his head, Gerard's joke slowly registering over the ringing in his ears. He forces himself to meet the man's gaze.

However triumphant or cocky Stiles was feeling before while creeping around in the shadows is long gone. All he feels now, looking into the eyes of the man who murdered his father, is cold.

Gerard's goons must feel it, too, because one of them shivers and takes a tentative step back.

Stiles allows a manic grin to spread across his face. "Testing out a new career in comedy, Mr. A? I don't know if a change this late in life is worth it. You're just…" Stiles points finger-guns at the man, "so good at killing things."

At that, Gerard's condescending smile morphs into something more considering. "Know a lot about my work, do you boy?" He chuckles throatily. "Well, I guess you must know _some_ things to do what you did." The chuckle turns malicious. "But that was a cheap shot you took, using the Feds to do your dirty work for you."

Stiles shrugs, unconcerned, and leans back casually against a tree. A few of the goons look at each other, confused.

Gerard's jaw ticks at Stiles' indifference. "Our sort of business is best done in the shadows, kid. Didn't anybody ever tell you that?"

"Not explicitly, no," Stiles replies. "But I think it's a bit hypocritical to talk about fighting fair when you've never fought fairly a day in your life." He yawns loudly. "Now are you going to tell me what your plan here is, or should I just incapacitate you now? It's late and I have a movie to finish."

The goons are definitely getting wigged out. A couple of them shuffle their feet, and Stiles can see a guy in the back start to edge away from Gerard.

Gerard is no longer pretending to be amused. "I just wanted to have a chat—"

Stiles snorts loudly, interrupting Gerard's melodrama. "A chat? _Riiiight_."

"A _chat_ ," Gerard spits, eyes flashing with rage, "with the traitor who got my daughter locked up." Gerard puts a hand on top of his holstered weapon, fingers twitching to aim it at Stiles. "You do realize you're on the wrong side, don't you? They're nothing but beasts. How people like you can live with yourselves I'll never know—"

 _And we've reached the crazy, villainous monologuing portion of the evening._

God, that was quick. Stiles can see spittle fly out of the guy's mouth. _Eugh_.

Backtracking Goon and Shuffling Goon are even giving the old man strange looks. Seems they weren't quite aware of how unhinged Gerard's particular brand of malice is.

"—but most of all I want to know _why_. Why did you do it? Who _are_ you? My family has done nothing to you, or even that disgusting pack you've been cavorting with."

Stiles twitches. He can't help it.

Gerard's expression turns sly. "Or at least, we haven't _yet_."

It's exactly the wrong thing to say.

Stiles springs forward from the tree and waves a commanding hand through the air, knocking all of the hunters flat. Startled shouts fill the air and guns scatter across the ground. Stiles takes a step forward, and in a blink, he teleports right on top of a prone Gerard.

Stiles kneels over the man, a crazed gleam in his eye. "You want to know why?"

Then he punches Gerard in the face.

"It's because I feel exactly the same way about you as you do about _people like me_."

Gerard's head jerks to the left as another punch lands true.

"Because your bitch of a daughter _deserved_ it—deserved so much _more_ than she got."

Stiles blocks Gerard's hand as he tries to bring up his pistol, slapping the gun away and digging his knees into Gerard's ribs.

"Because I fucking _hate_ what you did to your son, that you made him afraid."

A sharp _crack!_ rings out as Stiles' fist meets Gerard's face, again and again until the man's teeth are red and his right eye is swelling shut.

Stiles screams out in a rage, casting out another blast that sends the still-winded hunters sprawling even further away.

He stops swinging, his chest heaving and angry tears running down his face. Stiles wipes a bloody hand over his face and lets out a stuttering breath.

Stiles sighs softly and wraps both of his hands around Gerard's throat. At that, the man _really_ starts to fight back, bucking and yanking at Stiles' grip.

But Stiles doesn't let go. His world has narrowed down to this one point in time, to this one task—and if Stiles is anything, he's goal-oriented.

So he doesn't let go. He squeezes harder, his shoulders straining as he bears all of his weight down on Gerard.

"But if you really want to know," Stiles continues, voice hoarse, "it's because you made me realize _exactly_ what I'm capable of. That I can kill a man and feel nothing about it."

Gerard's eyes widen and Stiles laughs shakily.

"It's because you took so many things from me, and I can't live in a world where you'd have a chance to do it all over again."

Gerard's face is turning purple, his thrashing growing weaker by the second.

"It's because I love my new pack as much as I loved my old one," Stiles takes a big gulp of air. "The one that you murdered."

Stiles hears startled gasps from behind him, but he doesn't look away.

 _Stiles, don't look._

Stiles gags.

 _Don't._

 _Don't._

He trembles with grief.

 _Don't look_ , Derek's ghost whispers—so he doesn't.

"It's because you killed them all. It's because of Scott, who had asthma and loved pineapple on his pizza and tried out for choir in elementary school because he wanted to be Ricky Martin when he grew up—and you _killed him_."

Stiles takes in a ragged breath. "But most of all, it's because you killed my dad." Tears stream down Stiles' face. "I _loved_ him and you _killed_ him. Why—" Stiles' voice cracks. "Why'd you have to kill him? He was the only one I had left."

"Stiles."

Stiles freezes, the movement relaxing his grip just enough for Gerard to suck in a breath and wheeze.

He looks up, eyes seeing but brain not registering the sight of Chris standing in front of him.

"Stiles," Chris says calmly. "Is this really how you want to do this?"

Stiles looks around the clearing and spots Talia standing over a pile of unconscious hunters.

Huh. He'd wondered why no one had interrupted his impromptu strangling.

Then he sees Laura and Cal and Mark.

And Peter.

He's standing protectively a few yards to his right, looking devastated—his eyes glowing and his fists trembling with repressed rage.

Stiles looks back at Chris. His Chris. Whose father is currently dying under Stiles' hands.

The thing is, Stiles was telling the truth when he told Gerard that he hates just as passionately as Gerard does. They have that much in common. Stiles _wants_ to kill Gerard. Wants to kill him more than almost anything else in the world.

But he wants Chris more. And Stiles knows that if he does this—if he does this in front of Chris—it'll change things between them.

So he shakes his head and slowly unfurls his fingers from Gerard's windpipe. He blinks up at Chris dazedly and lets go.

He lets go, not for any altruistic reason like for the memory of his dad or Scott. He doesn't even let go for himself—no, Stiles lets go for Chris.

Only for him.

Chris swoops in and tugs Stiles up and into his arms. Gerard rolls over when Stiles' weight is gone and starts hacking roughly into the grass.

"That's it, I've got you," Chris murmurs into Stiles' neck as he hugs him close. "It's alright, I'm here. Peter's here." Stiles clings to Chris and bites at the man's throat, muffling a sob.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles, I—" Chris chokes out. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"It's not your fault, Chris. It's never been your fault," Stiles whispers into his ear. "I just—I didn't know how to tell you." Stiles takes in a shuddering breath. "I love you so fucking much. You mean the world to me and I…just didn't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Chris says softly. "I know who my father is. He'll pay for what he's done. You don't have to talk about it any more than you want to." Chris kisses his forehead gently. "I'll take care of him. You'll never have to see him ever again."

"Thank you," Stiles breathes. "God, thank you, Chris." He lifts his head to find Peter. He's standing closer to Stiles and Chris, his back to them protectively while he watches the goons groggily wake up, menace wafting off of him in waves.

Stiles slowly unwraps himself from Chris, who nods and says, "Go to him. He needs you to calm down so he doesn't go feral." Stiles nods and starts to walk over, only to freeze as Gerard interrupts with a scathing, hacking cough.

"Well isn't this sweet," he wheezes. "My faggot son is fucking a beast-lover." Chris doesn't even blink, a blank expression washing over his face. Gerard lifts his head and continues, "Everything I taught you, everything I did for you—and what do I get? A fucking disgrace." He flops around in the grass a little, limbs still shaky and weak. "I'm so disappointed in you, son."

"Like I give a shit," Chris says steadily, never flinching. "You're just like Kate—no that's wrong. You're worse because you made her just like you." Chris unholsters his Desert Eagle. "I'm going to have to live with the fact that I let her get as far as she did, that I was silent. But putting you away will help me sleep a little better at night." Chris lifts a corner of his mouth. "So, for the first time in my life, I'd like to say thank you, dad. Thank you for making this so easy."

Gerard scowls. "Like I'd ever make anything easy for you, Christopher." And then he whips up his gun and points it at Stiles.

Chris raises his own gun and aims it at his father's face. Peter whirls around and snarls, crouching low like he's preparing to launch himself in front of Stiles.

"Put the gun down," Chris intones, cocking his gun. "Before I put you down."

Stiles starts casting a forcefield.

Peter twitches.

Chris narrows his eyes.

Gerard sneers. "So it's like that, is it?"

"Yeah," Chris murmurs. "It's exactly like that."

"Chris," Stiles tries to tell him. "Don't—"

And then Gerard's trigger finger starts to pull and a shot rings out.

Gerard falls over onto the ground, his cold gaze dead and his black heart even deader.

There's a bullet resting comfortably right between his eyes.

Stiles looks over at Chris, wide-eyed as he takes in the smoking gun. Peter sprints over to Stiles and snatches him close to his chest, snarling and snuffling along his jaw. Stiles holds on tight, hugging Peter close as he never looks away from where Chris is standing over his dead father.

"Chris, I—"

"Don't," he says. "Don't you dare say you're sorry." Chris looks him straight in the eye and takes a breath. "I have hated my father since I was eleven years old. I should've known the bastard wouldn't come quietly."

Peter stops snuffling long enough to bring Stiles in for a bruising kiss, his fangs nicking his lip. He tears his mouth away and stares down at Stiles like he's memorizing every line of his face. Peter licks his lips before letting Stiles go and storming past Chris, brushing their shoulders as he passes. "I'll get the shovels."

Chris tucks his gun away and wipes a weary hand down his face. "Fuck, this is going to be a long night."

* * *

"I think that's the last of it," Stiles huffs as he sets down the cardboard box full of towels and linens.

"Actually, there's still a grand piano that I need to bring up," Chris replies sunnily as he walks into the kitchen.

Stiles shoves at his chest. "You're _hilarious_ , Chris—truly."

Chris grins at him, his smile so bright and wide that it takes Stiles' breath away.

It's been two weeks since they buried Gerard and Stiles salted and spelled the earth (don't need him pulling that Peter shit), and Stiles is still surprised by how _okay_ Chris is. And from the way Chris is sometimes shocked by his own happiness, Stiles would guess that the man is equally as surprised.

Every passing day Chris seems more at ease, relaxed in a way that Stiles has never seen him before. Chris laughs more. He openly teases Stiles about his constant bedhead and holds his hand when they go grocery shopping.

He's softer and sarcastic and so very quick to hang out with Stiles.

It's absolutely amazing.

For two weeks, Stiles watched as Chris became a new man, and it seemed like it couldn't get any better. And then four nights ago, when Chris told Stiles were out on one of their nightly walks, Chris told Stiles that he had had his lawyer draft up divorce papers.

That night was the first time that Stiles blew Chris.

He had pushed the man roughly up against a tree and dropped to his knees, looking up at Chris like a starving man. Chris had threaded his hands through Stiles' hair so carefully—so _reverently_ —that Stiles had to stick a hand down his pants and squeeze himself to stave off an orgasm.

Chris taught Stiles his first lesson on how to suck a man's cock—how to suck _Chris'_ cock—that night. His big hands had guided Stiles' head up and down at just the right speed, had pet Stiles' bulging throat as he gagged and choked himself desperately on Chris' thick cock.

Chris had told him how beautiful he was, how much Chris loved him and his mouth, how lucky Chris was to have _such a good cocksucker_ working on his dick.

Yeah, Stiles had come with his hand down his pants and Chris' hot cum dripping down his chin.

It was fucking _incredible_ —but the fact that Chris was finally going to be _his_ was what made Stiles walk on cloud fucking nine the rest of the night.

Chris later told him that two days after he buried his father, he had sat down with Victoria and told her it was over, that he was out of the life and wanted to raise Allison away from the vitriol of his own childhood.

And—most importantly—that they were over because he couldn't keep pretending to be a different man than he was.

He wanted to finally live as himself. _For_ himself.

Victoria, as bitchy as Stiles knew she could be, had begrudgingly agreed. From Chris' retelling, there were still assets to split and child custody to work out, but Victoria had icily demanded Chris _just_ _go_ _already_ if he was weak enough to split up their family.

Stiles wasn't there when Chris sat down and told Allison about the divorce. Chris said that she was quiet and asked questions and cried a little bit—and that by the time Chris had answered her angry _why?!_ with the fact that he liked boys and not girls, Chris was crying and Allison was hugging him through it.

She had told him that it was okay and asked if the boy he liked was Stiles.

Yeah, Stiles guesses they weren't too subtle about it.

Chris had explained that they were in love and that she was still going to see him every day and that no matter what, Allison was his first priority—that no matter what, Chris would always love her and be there for her.

Stiles cried when Chris recounted it to him over dinner last night.

So now Chris is happily separated, and Stiles is helping him move into a new apartment about ten minutes away from the Hale's pack house. They've been unpacking for a couple of hours and Chris has gone out of his way every ten minutes to touch Stiles—to pin him against walls and couches and refrigerators—and kiss the everloving shit out of him.

Just like he's doing right now.

"I am hilarious," Chris deadpans, but his smile is too wide and he ends up looking ridiculous.

Stiles laughs and shoves at his chest again, trying to get away from Chris' long arms, but he ends up being trapped against the sink as Chris mouths against his collarbone.

" _Chris!_ " Stiles gasps out at a particularly pleasurable bite. "Oh, fuck—Chris, please!" Stiles grinds against him, hitching his leg up higher. He grinds against Chris, moaning as the man sticks his tongue down Stiles' throat.

He slips his hands under Chris' shirt and drags them slowly up the man's defined chest. Stiles pinches and soothes his nipples, causing Chris to groan into his mouth.

Stiles breaks away from their kiss and nips at Chris' ear. "I want you to bend me over the counter and finger me until I'm blind."

Chris practically snarls with lust, instantly turning Stiles around and pushing him flat against the countertop.

"Yes, _fuck!_ That's it, that's exactly what I want," Stiles pants out, squirming against the hot hand pressing at the small of his back. "Please, Chris. _God_ , I want your big fucking fingers inside me. Always gets me off so quick." And it does, Stiles having found that his orgasms are 85% hotter and harder when Peter or Chris play with his ass.

It's _science_.

Chris yanks down Stiles' sweatpants until they're pooled at his ankles. Stiles pushes back against the hand that dips between his cheeks and starts stroking over his hole.

He whines when the hand leaves and Chris grunts out a frustrated, "I don't know where we packed the lube, baby."

"It's okay," Stiles rasps, looking back at Chris from over his shoulder. "I just want a finger or two, I can take it. Please, Chris, just—please, oh _god_." He moans as Chris spanks him.

"I'm not fingering you dry, Stiles," Chris admonishes. He spanks Stiles again when he starts to complain. Two more sharp swats follow and Stiles can't do anything but rest his forehead against the counter and rock back against Chris as he starts grinding against his ass.

Stiles looks back over his shoulder when he feels Chris stop, only to see the man get on his knees behind him and look at Stiles' ass hungrily. Chris smirks at Stiles and says conversationally, "I guess I'll just have to get you nice and wet some other way."

Stiles has only done this a couple of times, and it's always been with Peter. The man just knows how to get Stiles off that way—and Stiles can't help but wonder if he's stumbled across some sort of lucky curse that's made the men he loves experts on eating him out, given that his legs are beginning to shake as Chris works him open with his tongue.

He's been whimpering almost nonstop, his cries getting louder and throatier as Chris presses a finger in alongside his tongue.

"It's so good," Stiles groans. "For fuck's sake, it's so good, Chris. How do you—how are you, I just…" Stiles' eyes flutter shut as Chris crooks his finger and grazes his prostate.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, baby," Chris growls. "Peter talks about eating you out all the time—gets me so worked up." He sighs dreamily and scrapes his beard across Stiles' sensitive hole. "You're fucking perfect like this, almost nonverbal with my tongue in your ass. You can't do anything but moan out my name. God, you're sexy." Chris works in a second finger, hissing as Stiles clenches helplessly around it. "Goddamn werewolf was right—it's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

The thought of Peter talking about him to Chris like that just fucking _does it_ for him. Stiles cums, his hips thrusting against the cabinet and Chris' fingers trying their hardest to thrust into the tight clench of his asshole.

"You guys talk about me?" Stiles asks when his brain comes back online.

"Of course we do," Chris says, fingers still idly playing with his ass. "We want to make sure we're both on the same page. We keep each other in check."

"Guh," Stiles moans, eyes unfocused. "That's fucking hot." Stiles rolls over and flops against the counter. He grabs ahold of the belt loops of Chris' jeans and pulls the man up, nuzzling into his throat. "M'gonna suck your dick now, if that's alright."

"Yes," Chris says hoarsely. "That's always a yes, Stiles."

Stiles hums and slides down, slowly switching places until Chris is the one with his back against the cabinet.

"Can't leave you two alone for twenty minutes, can I?" Peter asks as he breezes into the apartment carrying bags of takeout. He sets them down on the counter and leans against it beside Chris.

Peter looks down at Stiles, taking in his bare ass and the glazed, worshipful glint in his eyes, and asks, "You tongued his ass, didn't you Christopher? I told you it was wonderful."

Stiles nods, smiling up at both of them. "It was amazing." He shuffles on his knees until he's in front of Peter. The man gasps softly as Stiles tugs at his jeans. "Thank you so much for recommending it to him Peter. I'm very…" Stiles bites his lower lip and rubs his hand over Peter's bulge, "…grateful."

Peter undoes the clasp of his jeans and slowly unzips his fly. "Let's see just how—" his words hitch as Stiles strokes him. "— _grateful_ you can be."

"Oh, yes," Chris agrees, eyes burning and focused on where Stiles is gripping Peter. He licks his lips. "Let's."

* * *

"So that's it?" Stiles asks dubiously. "It's good to go now?"

"Yes, young Stiles, it is done," Rhys replies jovially, the Fae's giant battle axes practically quivering on the man's back as he waits for Stiles' judgment like an over-eager puppy.

Stiles eyes Morgan. "And you both remember the terms of our contract?"

She nods solemnly. "We do, baby druid."

"Still not a fucking druid," Stiles mutters. He walks around the nemeton one more time, taking in its amazing growth. It looks _healthy_. The limbs spiral out in all directions, and bright green leaves rustle in the wind. The trunk is wide and hearty, and the bark looks like it's glowing (it actually might be, now that Stiles thinks about it—magic is weird like that).

He walks up to the tree and rests his hand against the base. Stiles feels only pure, untapped energy.

No trace of the darkness he had felt choking it remains.

"Alright," he says, turning back towards his audience. "For the work your Courts have done and for the promises you have made, I grant you a gift of the nemeton." Stiles feels Otis flutter against his ribs, and so he holds out his hand.

Two acorns appear in his palm, both small and perfect and _brimming_ with power. He hands one to Rhys and the other to Morgan.

They both stare down at their gifts, shock flickering over their sharp features.

Stiles claps his hands together loudly, reveling in the way both startle slightly at the sound. "I trust that you've all learned a valuable lesson about dicking around with things that shouldn't be dicked around with—also the whole honey versus vinegar debate and whatnot." He grins tightly at them both. "It's so much better to be friends than enemies, is it not?"

Stiles doesn't give them a chance to reply before continuing. "So, thanks. Now get the fuck off my land."

Both Fae look like they want to say something, but nothing is ever actually said.

Morgan gives Stiles a simple nod before vanishing.

Rhys bows low, the hand cradling the acorn clasped against his heart. "I look forward to meeting you again one day, Stiles Gajos. You are a fearsome warrior." And then he, too, vanishes.

Stiles blows out a breath of relief when he feels their alien magic disappear. He pats the nemeton and then slides down the trunk until his butt hits the dirt. Leaning back, Stiles closes his eyes and sighs. He hears the echo of Otis' relieved _Caw!_

"I know, I know," Stiles murmurs. "Fucking fairies, man."

* * *

"Might not be your best idea, Stilinski," Stiles says under his breath. He's currently lurking in the park, trying very hard to look like he's _not_.

But today is Saturday and it's 2 pm, and Saturday afternoons are for Scott.

He watches as a 9-year-old Scott runs across the rickety bridge, chasing after a giggling young Stiles.

 _Fuck_ , his head was really big for his body at that age. Stiles worriedly wonders if he actually ever grew out of it.

Stiles takes a bite of his sandwich as he mulls over this disturbing realization, frowning as he reaches a hand up to poke at the back of his skull.

"Something wrong with your sandwich?"

Stiles very deliberately doesn't whip his head up in surprise. Instead, he shrugs and glances to his left. A man has taken a seat in the empty spot next to him. The man looks at him curiously.

"I've seen you around here before. Where's your little sister?"

Stiles smiles softly. "She's not my sister, but, uh, she's with her dad at a competition right now. I guess I just got used to the routine." Lifting his sandwich, Stiles takes another bite and _refuses_ to choke on it.

"Oh yeah? What does she do?"

Stiles' smile widens. "Archery and gymnastics. She's got a tumbling meet today." He looks out at the kids playing and chuckles. "Yours is the clumsy one, isn't he?"

The man grins and shakes his head fondly. "That boy is a menace, I tell you. Yeah, he's mine." The man holds out a hand. "My name's Noah, by the way. It's nice to meet you…"

"Stiles," he responds quickly. "It's Stiles." He takes the man's hand, so firm and warm and _familiar._ "It's nice to meet you, too."

* * *

After his visit with his dad, Stiles is left feeling a little untethered.

A little melancholy.

He's ticked off so many important boxes for his mission back in time, and now he's just…here. Living in a time that is increasingly becoming more real to him than his own. His big plans have all been fulfilled and he's busted some serious ass to get where he is.

But now, again, he's simply _here_.

Here, in the past, without a goal other than to _keep on living_.

What breaks his heart the most is that he _wants_ to. He wants to keep sitting on Peter's lap on rainy days. He wants to poke Chris in the cheek when the man snores too loudly. He wants to help Derek make comic books and have Cora beat him into the dirt on sparring days.

Stiles Stilinski wants this life that he's created, and that means on some level, he's already let go of his old one.

Thus, melancholy.

He never wants to forget where he came from, _why_ he came here in the first place. He'll never stop watching and loving and yearning from a distance, but now it's time to focus on himself.

On those he's come to love in this life.

So he needs to say one more goodbye—at least for a little while—so that he can move forward.

No _on_ , but forward.

The gate to Beacon Hills' cemetery squeaks loudly as he opens it. No one else is here, so Stiles slowly makes his way to the westernmost plot.

He takes a seat on the bench his dad had installed three months after they'd buried her and says, "Hey, mom."

The breeze dies down and Stiles can't help but watch as the sun begins to set.

"I brought you your favorites," he says, holding up the bouquet of yellow roses and white daffodils. "Thought you could use a little more color." Stiles looks down at the browning grass. "There hasn't been a lot of rain recently."

Stiles lays them over his mother's grave and leans forward. "I just wanted to say that I'm not going to be around as often. I don't—" he clears his throat. "I don't need you as much as I did, and I'd like to think that you'd be proud of me for that." Tears fill his eyes. "For what I've done."

He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. "Sometimes it's so hard to know what the right thing to do is, but mom, I've tried. I've tried so damn hard."

Sniffling a bit, he straightens his shoulders. "I just wanted to come by and say that. It isn't goodbye, exactly—it's more of an 'I'll see you when I see you.'" He smiles sadly, looking down at the headstone. "I love you so much, mom."

Now, if Stiles hadn't been so melancholy, he would've noticed. He would've noticed the black SUV following him around all day.

If Stiles hadn't been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he would've heard. He would've heard the footsteps trailing his.

If he hadn't looked down at his mother's grave, he would've seen. He would've seen the shiny Beretta hurtling toward his skull.

"Shit," he yelps as it makes contact, Stiles' vision going blurry and Otis squawking in his head.

For all that Stiles prides himself on planning and predicting and being five steps ahead, he sure missed something obvious.

Stupidly obvious, now that he thinks about it.

After all, Chris was the only good one out of the bunch.

 _Once a calculating bitch, always a calculating bitch._

"Shit," Stiles chokes out as a second hit sends him crashing into darkness. "I really should've seen that one coming."


	20. Stiles Lives at the End

Stiles wakes just long enough to realize that his fingertips are numb.

That his head is throbbing.

That there's something warm and wet trickling into his right eye.

That, for some heinous and terrifyingly unknown reason, his shoes are gone.

That he's laying in a trunk.

That the car's no longer moving.

That his toes are cold (re: shoe problem).

That—

There's a hydraulic noise and then a derisive huff and then a sharp pinch at his neck.

Stiles wakes up just long enough to realize that no matter what timeline he's in, Victoria Argent is a stone-cold bitch.

And then that sharp pinch in his neck turns warm and inviting, crawling quickly up his neck and sucking his brain back into oblivion.

* * *

"—can't just let it go. You've done too much, seen too much of my family…"

The voice is muffled, distant in a way that makes Stiles' ears strain.

"—it's not like I can hold what you did to my in-laws against you. They were so _sloppy_ —"

There's a ringing building in his head, the pitch growing higher and higher until it cuts out and only his captor's ridiculous monologue can be heard.

"—and it's not entirely your fault with him, either—you're practically a child. I know his…preferences. I know it, I married the man, God help me. How my mother ever thought he was strong enough to…"

Stiles grits his teeth, wondering if he should continue playing opossum or suddenly "wake up" to get this whole train of crazy to chug a little faster.

"It'd be so easy to blame it all on you, though. Everything started to go wrong as soon as you came to town. I could see it in his eyes after that first meeting. I knew. It'd be so easy for me to just make you disappear, I certainly wouldn't lose much sleep over it. But I've never taken the easy way out, and I'm certainly not going to start with yo—"

Stiles can't take it anymore, he cracks up.

He snorts, eyes crinkling at the corners as he giggles hysterically. It takes him a few seconds to calm himself down enough to open his eyes, and when he does he sees Victoria sitting across from him in a metal folding chair. She's looking at him, her eyes practically slits, as she casually holds a pistol.

"The _easy way_ ," Stiles gasps out in between bursts of laughter. "That's too fucking rich. I can't handle the universe's sense of humor—it's too good, too fucking good."

* * *

"Hey, Peter."

Peter looks up from his computer, raising an eyebrow at his nephew. "What?"

Derek looks around the library nervously. "Have you seen Stiles? He said he was out running errands, but that he'd be back soon."

Peter huffs and leans back in his chair. "You know how Stiles is, he's probably buried somewhere in the library or lost track of time horsing around with that damn tree."

Derek doesn't look convinced. "Yeah, but Peter…he said he'd be back by four o'clock."

Peter freezes, his blood running cold as he looks over at the digital clock on his desk.

 _8:47_

Shooting to his feet, Peter whips out his phone and starts dialing. " _Fuck!_ "

* * *

At the sound of his laughter, Victoria looks less angry and _a lot_ more confused.

Stiles waves one of his shackled hands, pulling at the fence it's been attached to.

Well, that his _whole body_ has been attached to.

"But on another note," Stiles changes the subject, unable to help himself and unwilling to freak out in this god-forsaken basement for a second time. "What is with your family and having torture-dungeons? And what's with the fencing?" He yanks against his restraints, his body bowing outward. Stiles can't help but think that Derek probably looked way cooler than he does at the moment. He really should've asked Scott more about it. "Do you guys just have a bunch of chain-link laying around? That's really weird, just so you know."

Yeah, there we go—she's angry again. Just how he wants her.

"Shut up," she spits, getting up from her chair to punch him in the face.

Stiles cricks his neck and lets his head hang forward as blood flows from his nose. He spits around a mouthful of it, so _awful_ and warm and salty.

 _Blurgh._

He lifts his head when the blood slows, giving her a scarlet grin. "Now, isn't that more like it? It was easy to fool yourself into thinking you were doing the right thing when I was passed out, wasn't it? Didn't remember how much my voice just grates on your nerves, right? How much you _hate_ me?" He laughs again. "It's hard to take the high road when you have to do some actual introspection, isn't it Vicky?"

She punches him again.

* * *

"Who would take him?" Peter growls, pacing up and down the hallway.

"How do we know he's been taken?" Chris asks, voice firm and calculating even through the tinny speaker.

"Because when Stiles says he'll be back by four, _he'll be back by four_. Ergo, something or someone has intercepted him. And when has it _ever_ been someone nicely taking Stiles out for tea and cookies?"

There's a pause. "You're right."

"Of course, I'm right Christopher. I already have the pack out scouring the preserve and the town. I want you to brainstorm with me. Tell me what your instincts say."

"It has to be hunters," Chris says immediately. "It's too close to what happened to Gerard to be a coincidence.

"Agreed," Peter says into the phone. "Now, have you noticed anything strange going on on your end? Any new faces in town? Anything out of the ordinary?"

Peter startles at the pained noise that comes through the other end. "Chris? Are you alright?"

"Peter," Chris chokes out. Peter can hear Chris' car engine accelerate. "Peter, Victoria asked me to take Allison to her gymnastics meet." Peter feels his claws sharpen. "She always goes. _Always_."

"Double fuck."

* * *

Stiles laughs, limbs rattling the fence from the force of her blow. He coughs a few times and lets his smile turn vicious. "Why so angry? This is who you are, Victoria." He widens his eyes beseechingly. "Now, I want you to listen to me. Let me make this clear for you, give you the whole truth, nothing but the truth and all that good stuff: you're _definitely_ the one that takes the easy way out. Each and _every_ time." He rolls his head carelessly to the side. "You've convinced yourself of your cause—of your status within the hunting community, of your family, of your marriage—but it's all just a delusion."

"Shut up," Victoria demands.

"I bet you've worked hard to get where you are now," Stiles says. "I truly do. I bet you've trained and you've bled, you've gone to couple's therapy and read countless parenting books." Stiles looks her dead in the eye. "But I want you to know that none of it means jack _shit_."

"Shut. Up," she seethes, punching him twice in the stomach.

Stiles doesn't.

"You wanna know why? It's because you've built your entire life around _hate_ , and hating is so, so _easy_ to do." Stiles spits out another mouthful of blood. "That's all you Argents do is _hate_. You hate werewolves. You hate that you have to be the one that deals with them. You hate having to clean up everyone else's messes, and you hate being in a marriage that you never chose. You hate anyone that interferes with your control. You hate me and the Hales and even your husband. Your heart is _brimming_ with hate, Victoria Argent—and it's fucking _ugly_."

She's the one that shuts up, breathing heavily and gaping at Stiles, her knuckles starting to turn red.

"So don't you _dare_ say that you do things the hard way—that you make _sacrifices_. You don't know what you're talking about." He shakes his head in contempt. "You'd even give up Allison for your hate—it's what you're doing now, what you did _before_."

He spits that last word, and Victoria actually recoils at the contempt wrapped up in the word.

Stiles laughs heartlessly. "So, from someone who actually lives and breathes in _the hard way_ —shut _the fuck_ up, you crazy, spiteful shrew. Don't talk about things your Grinch-like heart and your brainwashed grey-matter can't understand—you end up sounding like a joke." Stiles rakes his gaze over her one more time. "And as funny as it was at first, it gets old really, _really_ , quick."

* * *

"Have I ever told you how much I hate your family?" Peter says as he races into the garage and grabs a set of keys.

"You can tell me that every day for the rest of my life after we get Stiles back," Chris whispers. "I'll be at my house in 15 minutes."

"Make it 10," Peter says. "And Christopher?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Be careful," he says softly before snapping his phone shut.

The engine roars in sync with his wolf, and Peter can't— _won't_ —put a cap on the fury rising within him. "Holy _shit_ , how I hate his family." He pulls out of the garage and takes off down the driveway. "Thank mother moon we've practically adopted that man. Who knows how he'd end up if we hadn't?"

* * *

Victoria takes a step closer. "You've taken everything from me, and you have the nerve to speak to me that way?" She grips his hair and puts her face close to his. "Do you have any idea who I am? What I'm going to do to you?"

Stiles gives her a happy grin. "That's the thing, Vicky. I know exactly who you are. The problem here is that I don't think you actually know who _I_ am."

He snaps his head forward, slamming it into Victoria's face. She stumbles back, tripping off of the platform Stiles' torture-rack is on.

"Your husband didn't mention a lot about me, did he?" Stiles asks conversationally as he magically unlocks the chains around his wrists, allowing them to clatter to the floor. He stretches out his back and pops his neck, flexing his fingers as he strides off the stand.

Victoria's already got her gun in her hand, but it doesn't do much good as Stiles waves at it, sending it careening across the room.

Her eyes go wide and she lunges at him, like she's just now realizing what a terrible idea this whole thing was.

Stiles ducks out of the way and yawns. "I honestly didn't see this coming, Victoria. Sure, I had a plan in place for you because you've proven to be _just_ annoying enough to be dangerous. But I never thought you'd make a move like this. I guess I should have, though, after what you did to Scott." He rolls with her as she tackles him from the side, using their momentum to pin her to the ground. "I just didn't think you actually cared enough about Chris to do something about me."

He watches her snarl at him, and then he gets it. "Oh, I see. It's not even really about him, is it? I was really spot on earlier, huh? This is about your ego, your need for control." He sighs. "I guess some things never do change, do they?"

His smile actually turns a little sad as he uses his magic to pin her down. Victoria stops struggling, and he can see the unrelenting anger in her gaze. But not fear.

Never fear from the likes of Victoria Argent.

"As targeted as what I've done may seem, I want you to know it wasn't about you," Stiles says. "It was never about you." He places his hands on her temples. "I don't hate you, Vicky. You're not important enough for that."

And a few seconds later, Stiles stands up, leaving Victoria passed out on the floor, her mind altered forever.

He staggers over and picks up her gun before walking to the little murder-table she had set up. He snatches up his phone with shaking fingers. Stiles dials and slumps into the folding chair, holding the phone up to his ear. He pats soothingly at Otis, who's fluttering angrily on his chest.

It rings twice before someone picks up.

"Yeah, hi, hello," Stiles says into the receiver. He scratches the muzzle of the pistol against his forehead and looks down at his blood-covered body and raw wrists. "I'd like to report a crime."

* * *

" _Stiles!_ "

Stiles peeks out from under the shock blanket he's got snuggled around him. George, the paramedic taping up his wrists, gives him a look. "You know that guy?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, not even pretending when his voice wavers. "That's my boyfriend."

A raised eyebrow. "Okay Steve, let him through."

Peter's wrapped around Stiles instantly, checking him over with his hands.

"Peter, I'm alright, I swear," Stiles reassures, words slightly slurred from the way his mouth has swollen up.

"You're not alright, darling," Peter chokes out, fingers ghosting over Stiles' battered face. "Look at what she's done to you."

"Well, she's not going to be doing it anymore. They took her to the station a couple of minutes ago."

"That psycho bitch is lucky they got here before I did."

George coughs loudly.

Stiles strokes Peter's cheek. "Peter, let's not threaten people in front of the emergency responders."

George shrugs. "I didn't hear anything."

Peter waves a hand at the paramedic. "See Stiles, George didn't even hear anything."

Stiles wraps Peter in his arms, stretching the blanket around both of them. Peter holds him, thanking George as he finishes up and tells them they can both hitch a ride in the ambulance.

"Stiles!"

George raises both of his eyebrows this time. "Another boyfriend?" he asks sarcastically.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Stiles says smugly. George blushes and hurries to the front of the ambulance.

Chris comes rushing over to them, Allison's hand gripped tightly in his own. "Stiles are you okay?"

Stiles watches as Chris' face cracks as he takes in Stiles' face. "Hey none of that, now." He looks over and sees Allison's horrified expression. "Come here you two." Opening up their hug, Stiles gathers them both onto his other side, hugging all three of them as one big group.

"It's not your fault," Stiles whispers in Chris' ear. "It's never been your fault."

Chris lets out a shuddering breath. "It feels like it is."

"I know," Stiles says. "I know. But we'll get through this." He smiles crookedly over at Peter. "Together."

* * *

Hours later, Stiles awakens to the steady sound of _beeps!_ and a small hand tentatively touching his own.

"Did my mom really do that, Stiles?"

Stiles rolls his head to the side, taking in Allison's apprehensive face. "Yeah, Allie," he breathes out. "She did."

Tears silently start to roll down her face, and it breaks Stiles' heart. "Why would she do something so, so _awful?_ "

He pats the bed, and she climbs up. Carefully, she leans back next to him. "I don't know, Allison. I think she was…afraid." She wasn't, but how do you explain supernatural racial prejudice and rage-filled sociopathy to a ten-year-old? "Afraid that if she lost your dad, she might lose you, too."

Allison sniffles. "But she's going to lose me anyway. She has to go to jail now, right?"

Stiles pats her shoulder gently. "I know it's hard to understand, but sometimes we do crazy things when we love people."

"It doesn't make it right."

Stiles wraps a shaky arm around her shoulder. "No, Allison. No, it doesn't."

They lay there in silence for a few minutes before the door opens and Cora pops her head inside.

She looks at Stiles, mouth drawn and eyes frightened, and whatever portions of his heart that hadn't cracked before absolutely _shatter_ now.

"Hey there, Cora, c'mere."

She looks back over her shoulder nervously before entering the room, walking slowly over to the bed at Stiles' insistence. "Hi, Stiles."

"Hey, dude." He glances over at Allison. "Cora, meet Allison. Allison, this is Cora. She's Peter's favorite niece." It says a lot about the situation that that doesn't even get Cora to blink.

Cora looks at Allison warily. Allison nods shyly and curls closer to Stiles.

Stiles pats the other side of the bed. "I've got more room if you want to relax for a bit."

Cora nods, hopping up on the other side and settling in next to Stiles. "Mom's taking care of everything. She— _we_ were really scared, Stiles."

"I'm okay, Cora. You'll be beating me up during sparring in no time," Stiles says with a forced grin.

"You better be," Cora whispers fiercely. And then she hugs him, sharp chin hooking over his shoulder.

Stiles will never admit it, but he cries.

A lot.

Eventually, they all settle back into the bed. The slow, steady rhythm of the hospital equipment lulling them to sleep.

Chris, Peter, Talia, and two Beacon Hills deputies find them like that an hour later, a small smile on Stiles' busted lips.

* * *

"Peter, you do know that I'm not actually an invalid, don't you?" Stiles asks exasperatedly.

Peter gives him a sunny smile and continues carrying him out onto the back porch. "It's this or I chain you to my bed, your choice dear."

"Kinky," Stiles snarks, batting away a fly that swoops in and buzzes in his face. "But I don't think we're there yet."

Peter's eyes go far away, and Stiles can feel an aroused purr reverberate in the man's chest. He smacks at one of Peter's firm pecs. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

Pouting, Peter settles down on the outdoor sofa. "You shouldn't tease me like that, sweetheart."

"You're the one talking about chaining me to beds, mister."

"That was," Peter clears his throat. "Probably the _wrong_ way to introduce a topic, but I was trying to ask if you'd, well…"

"If I'd…?" Stiles presses, snuggling closer against Peter's chest.

"If you'd like to move into my rooms," Peter says, holding Stiles' gaze.

Stiles stares at Peter for a moment, taking in the man's gorgeous, earnest face. "I'd love to," he says simply. Then he leans forward and kisses Peter gently, like he's got all the time in the world.

And, funnily enough, he does.

Stiles breaks their kiss to whisper, "But only if you go and get me some snacks." He gives Peter his best version of Scott's patented puppy dog eyes. "I'm so hungry."

Peter throws his head back and laughs, smacking Stiles' ass and biting his lower lip. "Brat." But he carefully removes Stiles from his lap and deposits him on the sofa anyway, shaking his head as he goes back inside to scrounge up some Stiles-approved snacks.

Stiles sighs contentedly and leans farther back against the cushion. His phone buzzes, and he sees that it's a text from Chris.

 _What are you doing tonight?_

Stiles smiles widely to himself, heart beating faster, and types out a reply.

 _Hopefully you ;)_

That pesky fly lands on his ear, making Stiles jump and swat at his face. It keeps buzzing around him until finally, Stiles uses a little magic to zap it away.

Stiles kicks his feet up on the table in front of him and looks out at the Hale property.

It's not a special day. It's a Thursday. Mild, if a little cloudy. Nobody needs saving and nothing needs tending to.

But for some reason, Stiles has this warmth radiating in his chest. And it won't go away.

He doesn't want it to.

For some reason, on this throwaway Thursday, Stiles just sits and marvels at how lucky he is to be here, alive and sort-of well and surrounded people he loves—by people who love him right back.

And for a guy like Stiles, that's worth a million magical redo buttons.


End file.
